tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77803763911495898562024-02-19T01:42:52.143+00:00Philip EllisPhilip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.comBlogger111125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-61908875703542153942015-05-29T16:12:00.000+01:002015-05-29T16:12:34.621+01:00Tracks - A Love Story<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our eyes met across a crowded
room, or at least that’s what I would always tell people when they asked how we
met, because <i>‘Brendan88 has viewed your
profile’</i> doesn’t quite have the same romantic appeal. Not that I was
embarrassed to have met the love of my life on Guydar, but having to explain to
co-workers and cousins exactly what kind of app it was made the whole thing
seem unnecessarily seedy. And I’d had enough of seedy by then; take the last man
to send me a message before you, ‘Shy_Guy_6’, who communicated solely via dick
pic and emoji. I tried engaging him in polite chitchat but that just got me a
close-up of his anus followed by a winky face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank god, then, that you replied
to my message. You’ll never know how long I deliberated over what to say,
before finally settling on an unimaginative but reliable ‘Hi', hitting Send, and holding my breath. In my head I call it
‘the last hi’, because I deleted the app immediately following our first date.
Amy called that move ‘a little keen’ but I preferred to think of as ‘quietly
confident’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We spent a fair portion of that date
sharing war stories from our respective experiences of online dating, laughing about
the various deviant requests we’d received, both of us aware but unwilling to
admit just then that we were drained, that loneliness is infectious and if we
were forced to spend any more of our lives typing out gambits to strangers in
text speak then it wouldn’t be long before our messages became tainted with the
same desperation as all the others. We were each other’s saviour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You were the most serious
relationship I’d ever had, and even though I never said it in as many words I
think you knew. You’d had a couple of proper boyfriends before, none of this
was new to you, and that bothered me sometimes, but mostly I was just happy. Amy
thought that the six month mark might be a bit early to move in together, but
we joked that in gay years we were an old married couple. Not that we bickered
much; mostly I hated it when you stole my aftershave and you would turn the air
blue whenever you tripped over a pair of my shoes in the hall. It was tiny stuff
though, silly stuff, because we were in love and we trusted each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I did trust you. I wasn’t
spying, I swear, but my phone was dead and I needed to check my email so I used
yours, and while I was scrolling through work memos a notification popped up with
a familiar little chirp. A message from
Guydar; ‘VersFunSW4 has viewed your profile.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And that was when morbid
curiosity overtook me, and I opened the app which was still on your phone almost
a year after I deleted it from mine. Maybe you just forgot it was there, I
reasoned with myself, but then I saw your updated profile pic, tanned and
gorgeous in Barcelona. I took that photo myself, had even remarked afterwards how
handsome you looked in it. Was that what made you choose it? It was certainly a
success with the men on Guydar, judging from all the messages complimenting you
on your eyes, your smile, one even saying he was captivated by the chest hair
peeking out from under your shirt collar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I felt sick. Sicker still when I
saw your responses, all LOLs and winky faces at first but then less coy.
Lengthy, intimate exchanges where you implied that you and your boyfriend had
an ‘arrangement’, where you described in detail exactly what you would do to LondonSub22
and TroyBoy and all the others. And I realised that I hadn’t been your saviour
after all, because you had never been lonely, you had a phone full of men just
gagging to keep you company. I was crying by the time you walked in, that awful
messy kind of crying where the words don’t want to come out, but you pieced it
together quickly enough, grabbed your phone out of my hand and stormed out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The thing with fights is, they
usually end. Whether it ends with shouting or tears or sex or exhausted
indifference, there’s always <i>something. </i>But
that was the last time I saw you. Hours later when my phone rang and it was
your name, I ignored it. I ignored it the second and third time too. When I finally
did answer, it wasn’t you on the other end. It was a nurse who had been trying
to get through to your emergency contact. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">‘It was incredibly quick’, she
told me. ‘He wouldn’t have felt a thing.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That was a year ago. Just over,
actually. I stopped counting the days after the first anniversary. Amy has
finally convinced me it’s time to move on, maybe even to go on a date. But the
thought of walking up to a guy in a bar and starting a conversation makes my
stomach hurt, so I compromise, and say I’ll think about downloading Guydar
again. It’s another month and a half before I finally give in and actually do
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Shy_Guy_6 is still doing the
rounds with his smut and smileys. They’re not even up-to-date photos; he’s
spamming me with the same picture of his penis that he first sent over two years
ago. This fills me with white hot, utterly irrational rage. I’m typing out a
message to him, a furious demand to show his face or get the hell off this app
forever, when my phone vibrates with a notification.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">‘Brendan88 has viewed your profile.’<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At first I think I’m reading it
wrong. But there’s no mistaking the picture in the profile; not the one I took
in Barcelona, but the one you had two
years ago. The first glimpse I ever got of you. It’s you, or at least a few
thousand pixels of you, and I’m so deliriously happy to see it that it doesn’t
register at first that this is impossible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s a catfish, I think. Some scumbag
found this picture of you in a dark corner of the internet and fancied taking
it for themselves. ‘Despicable,’ I mutter. But what if it isn’t? What if this
is really you, and you’ve found a way back to me? I have so much I want to say.
I might even finally get to break up with you, and it would serve you fucking
right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I look at my Guydar tracks. The
last person to view my profile before you was a Belgian in a gas mask. I
realise with a sinking feeling that I could actually do worse than a cheating
ghost or an identity thief. So I type out an unimaginative but reliable ‘Hi’,
press Send, and hold my breath.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">~</span></div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-67966851902159152442014-10-03T16:35:00.002+01:002014-10-03T16:35:53.509+01:00Hold My HandI am lying in my bed, alone, and somebody is holding my hand.<div>
It's been this way for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, and smaller, the hand fit mine perfectly. Now I am grown, and the cold little hand squeezes mine for warmth. </div>
<div>
I have never turned my head to look at who is lying next to me, who has shared my bed for all these years. Fear has always stopped me. Not fear of my silent bedmate, who has never given me cause to be frightened, but rather, for fear that if I turned my head to look upon them, they would vanish, go away forever, and I would be left to sleep here all alone in the dark.</div>
<div>
Of course it is silly, for an adult to be scared of the dark. But I feel I have just cause, I believe there is something out there we would be wise to fear. For what else could have spurred my invisible friend to reach out for my hand that first night, and to keep reaching, to keep holding onto me ever tighter, every night after?</div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-72835486780628685082014-06-13T13:05:00.000+01:002014-06-13T13:05:50.276+01:00We Prefer Angels<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Phone sex is less fun, Lyla
decides, when neither of the participants happens to be you – not to mention a
nightmare to transcribe.<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Party 1: <i>You like that, baby?</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Party 2: <i>*Unintelligible grunt*<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even more of a faff is
trying to preserve the narrative of sexts when they consist entirely of emojis.
Lyla knows she’s on perv duty as part of her punishment, even if the official
story is that she’s just ‘filling in’ while Raj has his appendix removed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She should have just
kept her mouth shut and her head down; always easy enough to see in retrospect.
But she didn’t, so now her working day consists of trawling through the
telephonic filth of some depraved ambassador while Perry completely screws up
what should be her caseload.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">They’re a fairly small
team compared to some; just herself, Perry, Raj and George, dedicated to monitoring
prominent families and a handful of celebrities with political aspirations. The
door to their office simply reads ‘Specialist Division’.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It had given Lyla butterflies
on her first day. Here she was, an analyst fresh out of Cambridge, in the heart
of the watchtower. The job lost some of its lustre, however, the moment she
stepped through the door and met Perry.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“You that tart from
downstairs?” He asked, looking her up and down in a way that made her desperate
for hand sanitiser.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Lyla,” she replied,
cooling to him instantly. “You the head snoop?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“We prefer angels,” he
said. “You know, as in guardian angels.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I bet you do.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“And no, I’m not in
charge.” He jerked his head towards another closed door at the far end of the
office. “George is.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was all a bit <i>Charlie’s Angels</i> in the Specialist
office, Lyla soon found. They received emails from George with requests for
updates or reports, but there was nothing in the way of personal contact. She
never actually met the man until she was six months into the job.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lyla was intercepting
the calls of a young parliamentary candidate, Rory Snow. She knew the sort, had
been surrounded by them at Cambridge. Tall, blonde, with a plum in his mouth and
a twinkle in his eye. These were the men who got what they wanted, who didn’t
even need to ask for it. Snow bucked the trend in one respect only; he was a
democrat, and a squeaky clean one, if you were to believe the press. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But the first lesson Lyla
learned as an angel was that nobody was ever truly clean. Rory Snow kept his
vice well hidden, but after just a few weeks of listening in on his life, Lyla
stumbled upon it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Pretty girls,” she
told Perry, dropping a pile of transcripts onto his desk.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“They’ll be the
downfall of this great nation,” Perry sighed, ignoring the folder.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“That’s not all of it,”
Lyla said. “Some of these girls are a little on the young side.” That was
putting it mildly. Snow’s unsavoury preferences made her new ambassador friend’s
exploits seem as harmless as a stack of Playboys under a teenager’s mattress.
Perry took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Just log it,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“We need to call the
police.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“And say what?” Perry
asked. “How do you propose we explain how we came by this information? We do
nothing.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I thought we were
meant to be guardian angels,” Lyla said. Perry rolled his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Fine,” she picked up
the papers. “I’m going to George with this.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I wouldn’t if I were
you,” Perry called after her, as she marched across the office. He didn’t stop
her, though; just reached for a Danish.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lyla gave the door
three sharp raps, and when no sound came from within, knocked again. Still
receiving nothing in the way of a reply, she reluctantly returned to her desk.
At the end of her shift, she logged the day’s transcripts, shrugged into her
jacket and left, just like she always did – only this time with a sheaf of
printouts stuffed into her handbag. If Perry and George weren’t going to do anything
to stop Rory Snow, she thought, she would have to do it herself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Except, of course, she
didn’t even make it out of the building. Vic, the avuncular clerk at the front
desk who commented on the weather as she signed in each morning, called over to
her before she could reach the revolving doors.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I’ve been requested to
escort you upstairs,” he told her, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.
For one brief, wild moment, Lyla considered darting for the doors, but thought
better of it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Fine,” she assented.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She was taken to an
empty conference room and left to wait, alone. For what felt like hours (but
probably only amounted to five minutes), various scenarios played out in Lyla’s
mind. Would she be fired? Prosecuted, even? The foolishness of what she had
just attempted hit her. Leaving the watchtower with an open case file – how
could she have been so stupid?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then George walked
in. He was nothing like Lyla had imagined. Tall, rake-thin, Savile Row from
head to toe. He sat down in the chair next to hers, so any onlooker would think
they were <i>both</i> for the gallows, folded
his hands on the tabletop, and said simply;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I believe you have
accidentally left something upon your person.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And that was it. Lyla
gave up the papers, and he left. The next day she came into work, and was given
Raj’s workload. Perry could barely contain his delight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="line-height: 200%;">“I’m
going to make you scream,”</span></i><span style="line-height: 200%;"> the ambassador whispers in Lyla’s
ear. <i>“I won’t stop until you’re begging
for mercy.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She still has work to
do, she tells herself. Important work. The safety of an entire country is in
their hands; they <i>have</i> to think of
the bigger picture.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The ambassador releases
a wordless, animalistic cry. Lyla includes this in her notes, and suppresses a
scream of her own.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> ~</span></span></div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-79362371024266730432014-04-04T11:07:00.000+01:002014-04-04T11:07:05.926+01:00The Selfie of Dorian Gray<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The moment the shutter on the camera clicks, Dorian feels different. He
is momentarily short of breath; it is almost as if, by capturing his image, the
iPhone also drew the very air from his lungs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Preposterous,” he mutters to himself, and looks down at the picture he
has just taken. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This, he realises, must have been how the accursed Narcissus felt, upon
first catching sight of his own reflection in the river. Never before have his
own eyes seemed so blue, his hair so golden, his lips so full. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It is, without a doubt, the perfect selfie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Don’t you dare hang up on me,” Sabina howls down the phone, like the
proverbial banshee. “We are not finished here, you owe me an explanation!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Darling,” Dorian replies, in what he feels is his most reasonable
tone, “I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea about me. But I’m just not looking
to settle down. When did I ever say otherwise?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“How cold you are,” she spits. “How cruel. So you think it’s alright to
sleep with other girls? With other <i>men?</i>
Do my feelings matter at all?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dorian ends the call. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Needy, needy girl,” he whispers to himself, shaking his head. To take
his mind off the whole debacle, he decides to check how many more likes his
selfie has racked up. Twelve since he last looked. Satisfied, Dorian is about
to return his phone to his pocket when he notices something. Something off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He raises the phone to his face and squints. Impossible!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The picture has changed. His eyes are still blue, but paler; they have
lost some of that trademark twinkle. His lips are still red, but they don’t
look quite as full. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“How can this be?” He utters, but there is nobody in the room to
respond, and of course the photo can’t very well speak for itself. Sabina
called him cruel; this is a likeness of a cruel man. But that image was taken weeks
ago, before he even met Sabina. Before he slept with her, and then her best friend,
and then her brother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But still, it’s undeniable – the picture has changed for the worst.
Dorian shrugs, and puts his phone away. What does it matter? A glance in the
mirror reassures him that in the flesh, he has never looked better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Time is kind to Dorian, and unkind to those around him. With each year
that passes, the selfie ages. With each heart he breaks, with every tramp he
hits in his Mercedes, the eyes on the screen grow ever narrower and more flint-like,
the smile gradually curling into a sneer. After a decade, it pains him to look
at the photo at all – it has changed too drastically, reflects too much, while
his own face remains precisely as it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There are two Dorians now, and over the years makes his peace with it,
telling nobody his secret when they enquire after which face cream or cosmetic
surgeon holds the key to perpetual youth. Not that anyone would believe him if
he were to tell them the truth; that his withered soul is trapped in a magic photograph,
belied by his own youthful, perfidious exterior.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He has long since removed the image from social media, obviously. He often wonders what would happen if he were to delete the selfie entirely.
Would his every sin from those misspent years be returned upon him? Would his
skin crack like parchment? Would he, god forbid, lose his hair?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Whatever spell the selfie has cast, it is a gift. To question or waste
it would be a crime. And so Dorian vows to live as authentically as he can, pleasure
and gratification his only commandments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Instagrammed, immortal, and irredeemable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">~</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-60309975236870382232014-01-20T14:53:00.000+00:002014-01-20T14:53:28.312+00:00Rain Dance<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><i>I respond to the idiotic claims that homosexuality causes floods the only way I know how - in the form of a story.</i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">~</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“A
church wedding would have been nicer,” he overhears a second cousin saying at
the reception. Callum suspects this distant relative would also have preferred there
be a bride, as opposed to the two young men in suits who made their vows this
afternoon. He makes a mental note to strike the cousin’s name from his
Christmas card list.<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He
didn’t even want extended family at the wedding; it was Mitchell who insisted
they have everyone there. His new husband (Husband! He can’t get his head around
the word) has a much more genial and forgiving nature. In fact, the only flaw
of his that Callum is still working on correcting is his tendency to drop
grammatical clangers from time to time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Shame
about the weather,” somebody closer to the top table remarks – Callum thinks it
might be Mitchell’s auntie. In this instance he is inclined to agree.
Torrential rains have turned the hotel grounds into a swamp, making any outdoor
photos completely out of the question.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A
nasty little thought squirms to life in the back of his mind. Something
ridiculous and half-forgotten. A story from the paper a few days before the
wedding. A politician with views that skew towards the radical claimed that the
government’s decision to allow same-sex couples to marry was the cause of the
recent extreme weather conditions ravaging the country. Mitchell dismissed the
councillor as “Old Testa-mental”, and used the article later that day to line
the cat’s litter tray. And Callum didn’t give it another thought. Until now.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Don’t
be stupid,” he mutters to himself, pouring himself and his new hubby (ugh, no, ‘hubby’
is too saccharine, he decides) another generous glass of champagne. He is
rescued from his own dark thoughts by the sound of a spoon tinkling against a
glass. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Good
evening, everyone!” Bellows his best woman, Ros. Oh, lord. He’d forgotten about
this part. It has kept him awake every night this week. He’s never been any
good at it, no matter how encouraging or patient Mitchell is as a teacher.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“What
are we calling you guys now – Mitchum? Callell?” Ros shrugs. “Anyway, ladies
and gentlemen, please be as upstanding, as our newlyweds take their first
dance.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Callum
lets Mitchell lead him by the hand onto the dance floor, and the song they took
weeks to agree on begins to play; <i>‘You’re
My Best Friend’. </i>Because, as Mitchell said at the time, their wedding just
wasn’t gay enough.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As
it turns out, dancing in front of everybody he knows isn’t that bad. He steps
on Mitchell’s feet a couple of times, but for the most part his awkward
shuffling is met with dewy eyes and heartfelt smiles. The song is almost over
when he hears the maniacal laughter. He spies the culprit at the back of the
room; a guest he doesn’t recognise in a bright blue suit and derby hat. He is throwing
back his head and laughing, clapping his hands, and hopping from foot to foot
like an excited child. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Bet
you wish we’d stuck to close friends only,” Callum whispers in Mitchell’s ear,
nodding towards the dancing madman, who is attracting the attention of the
other guests.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mitchell
frowns.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I
have no idea who that is,” he replies. “I thought it was one of your old uni
mates?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Callum
shakes his head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Well
let’s ask,” Mitchell says. “Looks like he’s coming over.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And
so he is – the curious blue-suited gentleman is now at the edge of the dance floor,
observing the newlyweds and chuckling away. Once he notices that they have
stopped dancing and are, in fact, staring at him in utter bemusement, he steps
forward.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Mind
if I cut in?” He asks Mitchell, not even waiting for a response before grabbing
Callum by the hand and spinning him around. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Who
the hell are you?” Callum asks, trying his best to be angry but finding that
all he feels is relief – his feet finally seem to know what they’re doing, and
he is matching this lunatic step for step in what can only be described as an
epileptic jive. The music is louder than before, faster, and the other guests
are soon sweeping onto the dance floor to join the revelry.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thunder
can be heard over the music, as it rolls across the sky outside.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I’m
Ba’al,” says the intruder. The apostrophe rings in Callum’s ears. “But you can
call me Bill.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Ba’al,”
Callum echoes. “What kind of name is that?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“A
very old one,” Bill replies, clicking his fingers in time with the beat. “It
means all sorts – thunder, rain, lord of the heavens. Take your pick.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“You’re
insane,” Callum says, twisting his hips. Bill just laughs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mitchell
reappears, refreshed champagne flutes in each hand. “Everything alright here?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Fine,”
Callum answers, taking one of the glasses. “I’m just dancing with God.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“A
god,” Bill corrects, snatching Mitchell’s champagne and knocking it back. “We’re
like the public sector. There’s loads of us.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Well
you weren’t invited,” Mitchell says, “but you’re more than welcome to stay and
enjoy the disco.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I
might just do that!” Bill squeezes Mitchell’s cheeks as if he were a
particularly cute toddler. “And is there a spread?” Mitchell nods, unflappable
as always. Callum is less inclined to accept this ludicrous turn of events.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">“That
crazy bible-thumper was telling the truth about us, </span><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">wasn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> he.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“It’s
true,” Bill says, smile faltering, standing still for a moment. “Your union has
made the gods weep.” Callum’s heart begins to sink. “But,” Bill continues, “these
are tears of joy falling from the sky. Mankind is finally making the progress we
have long known you capable of.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Huh,”
Mitchell murmurs. “Even gods end sentences on prepositions. How about that.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
rain god hoots with laughter once again, before moseying off through the
ecstatic throng in the direction of the buffet.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">~</span></span></div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-48383519045191265732013-10-04T13:29:00.000+01:002015-02-13T13:14:09.481+00:00Some Scenes Have Been Created For Your Entertainment<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“This isn’t working,”
said Jake. “I think it would be for the best if we don’t see each other
any more.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Annabel said nothing,
although she wasn’t exactly surprised. By the time she finally thought of a suitable
response, she couldn’t help but feel that the moment had passed.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Cut,” she said. “Can
you do that again, Jake? But this time, really look at me. Don’t be afraid to
get a little bit <i>intense</i>, to make the
viewer squirm, you know?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“For god’s sake, Annabel!”
He snapped. “Can’t you see that this is the problem? I can’t indulge you any
longer. I won’t go on being a player in this little show of yours. None of it is
real – the whole thing is just too weird.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Annabel frowned, hoping
his comments hadn’t hurt Bill’s feelings. Bill was her cameraman.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“I understand,” she said,
“but if we could just give this one more go –”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“No, Annabel, it’s
over.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“Oh, I know that,” she
said. “What I meant was, could we give the breakup another go? One more take, maybe two. I think we’re
so close to nailing it.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Jake’s lip curled up in
disgust, but she signalled for Bill to keep rolling. Sure enough, Jake stood up
and stormed out of the restaurant. With the right editing, it would make the
perfect cliff-hanger before an ad break.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Annabel was the first
to admit; reality TV wasn’t for everyone. She’d had some doubts about it herself,
when she first got the call from the production company. Because no matter how
unseemly your average Guardian reader might find it, the qualms of the prospective
starlet are double. Was she anxious, apprehensive even, at giving a film crew
unlimited access to her life, of forfeiting mherprivacy for god knows how long?
Of course. But she also knew that the show, </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">The Sweet Life, </i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">was too big an opportunity to give up.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">At the end of their
first day of shooting, Bill had taken her aside and told her she was a natural.
It took some getting used to at first; having to enunciate more, conducting the
same conversations over and over in order to form a seamless narrative in the
edit. And then there was the camera. She soon learned to suppress the instinct
to smile or ‘act’, and just behave nonchalantly. It was funny, really. She’d
always felt special. Like, maybe in another life she might have been Cleopatra,
or Marie Antoinette, or Cheryl Cole. Turned out, she was born to be a TV star, which she thought beat being Kate Middleton any day.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">When Annabel arrived
home after her disastrous lunch with Jake, Mum and Dad were sitting in the
living room. She positioned herself far enough away from the window that the
late afternoon light wouldn’t ruin the shot, then said brightly:</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“Hi kids! What’s new?” She
talked to her mum and dad as if they were the young, hip parents of a 90’s
sitcom. Apparently the fans loved it.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“Darling,” Mum beckoned
for Annabel to sit next to her. Instead, she perched on the arm of the sofa, to
better show off her Jimmy Choos. She was hoping to get an endorsement.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“We ran into Jake this
afternoon,” Dad said. “He told us what happened.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Damn. If Jake was
blabbing to all and sundry about their recent split, it wasn’t going to come as
much of a surprise to viewers when the episode aired.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“I won’t lie,” she said,
with a heart-heavy sigh, “I’m really hurting right now.” This could be the
episode’s closing act, she decided. The star of the show, letting down her confident,
ready-to-take-on-the-world exterior, and showing her true feelings. There had
been talk of a National TV Award, so she needed to give it her all.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“Why don’t you tell us
your side of it, love,” said Mum, supportive as ever. Annabel had told her more
than once that she was a firm fan favourite, but she’d hear nothing of it.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“Good idea,” said Dad.
“Who dumped who?” Unfortunately, Dad’s directness had garnered him less in the
way of a fan base.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“He…” Annabel paused,
and let her voice falter. “He broke up with me. I never thought I was the kind
of girl who needed to be with a man, but he made me really happy.” After
another long pause, she added, just for good measure: “I'm heartbroken.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“Oh, love…” Mum reached
out and took Annabel’s hand in hers. “Did he say why?”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">She hesitated before
replying, reluctant to bite the hand that fed her, then resolved to tell the
truth. She’d only be seen as braver for it.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“It’s the show,” she
said. “It was all just too much for him.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Mum’s expression changed.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">She glanced at Dad, then turned back to face her.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“Annabel,” she said, in
that gentle yet firm way of hers, “we’ve talked about this. There is no show.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Annabel laughed. “What
are you talking about?” Is this some kind of meta joke, she wondered, or
perhaps something for the DVD extras?</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“It’s all in your head,
Annie,” Dad said. “</span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">The Sweet Life</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">,
the cameras, everything.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Something in the way
Mum and Dad looked at each other, that worried glance they shared, made Annabel
uncomfortable in a way that being dumped by Jake just hadn’t.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“But Bill,” she said, no longer concerned with breaking the fourth wall.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“Bill’s not real
either,” Mum said. “Look around. See for yourself.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">She turned to where
Bill always stood when they were filming downstairs; in the doorway, where he
could capture the entire room. Except he wasn’t there now.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“No,” she said, “this
isn’t right. I’m a natural. People love me.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Her eyes began to
sting, and Mum pulled her into a tight embrace. Why did she feel like this
conversation had happened before? Why did this feel like the umpteenth take? Tears quickly
followed, and as she cried into her mother’s silk scarf, Annabel thought she heard
Bill’s voice in her ear:</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<i style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Give
that girl a BAFTA.</span></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">~</span></span></span></div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-79559578280626390882013-09-21T15:45:00.000+01:002013-09-21T15:45:11.119+01:00Last Dance At Yoko's (Part 4 of 4)<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Following his impromptu excursion
into the past and metaphysically impossible reunion with his dead girlfriend,
the day to day routine of Charlie Gillespie became something of a waiting game.
He would eat, sleep, smoke weed and shoot the shit with Kat, but he did all of
these things on autopilot – the whole time, he was listening for something.
Fine tuning his senses as best he could to the whims of the universe, trying in
vain to anticipate his next <i>Quantum Leap</i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But a watched universe never
boils, and Charlie found the weeks passing with worrying regularity. Before he
knew it, well over a month had gone by, and he began to despair. Might he not
get another chance to put things right with Alicia? Had he wasted the chances
he’d been given? Or, more probably, had he simply imagined the whole bizarre
affair?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He could tell that Kat was
feeling less and less inclined to humour him. He never intended to bring it up
in conversation, knowing only too well how deranged he sounded, but he found it
hard to stop himself. They’d be watching a reality show and Charlie would feel
the topic bubbling up in his throat like a hiccup. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I know it’s going to happen
again, I just don’t know when,” he said once without provocation, and he swore
he could see Kat physically resist the urge to roll her eyes. She very
patiently explained to him that it had in all likelihood been a rather complicated
coping mechanism, and he should see the fact that he was no longer experiencing
these blackouts as a sign he should be moving forward.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But forward was not the direction
Charlie was interested in, and they both knew it. At the end of the second month,
Friday night came around but Kat didn’t. He knew he should pick up the phone,
but it just never quite transpired. Nothing at all seemed to carry much
importance anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After what felt like a lifetime
of avoiding the local shop like the plague, Charlie’s cupboards were now well
stocked with all the essentials; lager, whiskey, vodka, schnapps for when he
was feeling exotic, and a variety of hard-boiled sweets to go with the treats
he had been able to procure from Twig, whose acquaintance he had decided to
renew.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Friday nights became quite the
party chez Charlie, not that anybody received an invite. He would crank up the
Arctic Monkeys, work his way through a bottle of spirits and a dash of whatever
else he had handy, and while away the hours rehearsing what he would say to
Alicia when he next saw her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Don’t call her a bitch,” he
would tell himself. “Don’t get into that row again, don’t ruin your last night
together. Make it perfect, like it should have been, like it has to be.” He
would play ballads and practise his slow dancing moves, knowing that “Careless
Whisper” or “I Will Always Love You” could always be relied upon to make
appearances at the end of the night in Yoko’s. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie became so focused on
preparing for his next trip that he stopped trying to predict it. He had no
notion of when his reunion with Alicia would occur, only that it <i>would</i>, and this was where all of his
energy went.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Once, on his way back from a
fruitful meeting with Twig, he ran into Janelle in the street. He smiled and
went to give her a hug; she shrugged him off and marched away at a steady chop,
glancing back frequently over her shoulder, her eyes wide and panicked. She
didn’t recognise him. Charlie tried to think when it was that he had met her,
and where. The details eluded him; anything that had happened in his life
before Yoko’s reopened for business seemed not quite real.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even the most impatient children
know that Christmas morning will always come eventually, and whether Charlie
was good or not, he knew the same was true of that club, of that night. And not
long after he saw Janelle, a week at most, Christmas came for him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The third time that Charlie was
plucked from his linear existence and thrust back into Yoko’s, torn on this
occasion from a half-finished bowl of cornflakes, he recognised the pure
Eighties piano synth assaulting his ears before his vision even had time to
clear. Tears For Fears, one of the few old school groups Alicia had time for.
“Head Over Heels”. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He was standing on the edge of an
empty dance floor. He turned around, scanned the entire club, but saw nobody. The
place looked completely deserted. His chest began to tighten, he should have
known dreams didn’t really come true…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then he saw her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“You’re late,” she said, emerging
from the doorway that led to the Ladies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“You’re dead,” he replied.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Don’t change the subject, you’re
still late.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I know. I’m sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I’ve been waiting so
long for you,” she told him, taking him by the hand and pulling him towards the
dance floor.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I tried to get here
sooner,” he said. “But I forgot the way.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Doesn’t matter, you’re
here now.” The song changed to something by The Cure, and Alicia began to rock
gently. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I’m still not sure I
understand,” Charlie murmured, not entirely sure he cared anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Think about it,” Alicia
whispered in his ear. “When was the
music here <i>ever </i>this good?” She
stepped back and held out her arms.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Dance with me,” she
said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie took her by the
hands and pulled her closer, as close as she could be to him without their
bodies merging. It dawned on him that he
need never leave this place, that he had always belonged here, at Yoko’s, with
Alicia. He would only ever be a stranger anywhere else.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">The DJ spoke into his
microphone, informing the club that the final song of the night was about to be
played.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Alicia wrapped her arms around
Charlie’s waist and he buried his face in her hair, breathing her in, and
together they began to sway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">~</span></div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-62323056666910460672013-09-21T15:44:00.000+01:002013-09-21T15:47:06.335+01:00Last Dance At Yoko's (Part 3 of 4)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie
kept the promise he had made to himself and stopped taking Dr Clarke’s
pills. He gave the pub that Twig liked
to do business in a wide berth, believing that if he avoided temptation, then
the chances of a repeat of Thursday’s incident would be vastly reduced.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As
he put more and more days between himself and the event, it became easier to
think of as nothing more than a particularly vivid dream. A chemical and emotional hiccup. After a while, Charlie had all but forgotten
the entire episode.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It
was almost three weeks later that it happened for a second time. Charlie had just bid Kat goodnight after a
curious dinner which she had insisted was Persian, but looked and tasted more like
Indian food would if it just stopped trying.
Charlie slumped down on the sofa with a beer, intending to flick through
the channels until he came across some post-watershed foreign film that showed
a little flesh. But when he reached for
the remote, he touched nothingness. He
could feel neither the sofa nor the floor beneath him. There was only blackness, and silence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When
Charlie felt something solid beneath his feet, he opened his eyes which he
hadn’t even realised were squeezed closed.
He was surprised by how <i>little</i>
surprise he felt at being back in Yoko’s; this time, he had been deposited in
the red corridor leading into the main club.
Thankfully, he didn’t appear to have been sick as a result of this
latest trip.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He
looked down, and sure enough, he was wearing the creased shirt and leather
jacket from three years ago. Even his
shoes carried the same stains from numerous spilled beers. Charlie walked slowly into the club, passing
two young men who were engaged in the age-old ritual of mutual shoving, and
scanned the room, knowing she would be here somewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And sure enough, there Alicia was,
dancing with her girlfriends to Joy Division, although Charlie knew for a fact
that none of them would recognise this song beyond its use in remixes,
samples and other bastardised efforts. "Love Will Tear Us
Apart". A little on the nose, Charlie thought, not to mention out of
the ordinary for Yoko’s on a Saturday night, when the edgiest fare one could
expect was “Bohemian Rhapsody”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Alicia tossed her hair in that
rehearsed, stripper-like way of hers, and he could tell she had spotted him
from the corner of her eye. She waited
for the song to finish before retrieving her tiny handbag from the small pile
in the middle of their group and sauntering across the dance floor towards
him. She looked less angry than the last
time – had he arrived at a different point in the evening? Charlie glanced down at his wrist, but it was
no use; he had never been the type of guy to wear a watch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Alicia greeted him with a peck on
the cheek, then took a small, expectant step back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Now I just know there’s a
perfectly reasonable explanation for why you’re so late.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Almost certainly,” Charlie said,
old habits easing his tied tongue. “And
as soon as I think of one, I’ll tell you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Alicia frowned to cover up her
involuntary smile.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Stop me if you you’ve heard this
one before,” he continued, “but did it hurt?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“If the next words out of your
mouth are ‘when you fell from heaven’, I may have to leave immediately.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Then my lips are sealed.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Let’s not be too hasty,” she interjected.
“You know how fond I am of your lips.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Why don’t you remind me?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He pulled her into his arms and
kissed her. Alicia kissed him back,
completely unaware that from his perspective, this was their first kiss, their
first embrace, in over one thousand days and nights. This was more than a simple dream or
memory. Charlie knew his mind was
incapable of recreating the smell of Alicia that night, the perfume and smoke
and sweat. She was real, and she was
here; he could feel the heat and weight of her in his arms, on his lips.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Except… <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Except, Charlie knew that this was
not how things had played out that night.
He had arrived late, Alicia had been furious, and the spiteful row that
followed had cracked their relationship open, allowing every tiny annoyance and
resentment to come spilling out. She had
been unable to hold in any longer how much her friends pitied and mocked her
for having to forever hang on, waiting for him to grow up. He had decided to bring up the exact number
of her close friends who happened to be male, succeeding in calling her a whore
without ever uttering the hateful word.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Remembering that bitter truth was all
it took, it appeared, to break the spell.
Charlie could physically <i>feel</i>
Alicia vanishing from his arms as the strobe lights, drunken revellers and
humid din of the club gave way to his living room once more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“No!” He exclaimed, turning to
punch the nearest wall. Not satisfied
with the first jolt of pain, he did this again, and then again, continuing to
drive his fist into the wall until both his knuckles and the plaster were
spattered with blood. She had been right
there. He had spoken to her, <i>kissed her </i>for heaven’s sake; how could
she simply be gone again? It felt
wrong. Beyond unfair, it was obscene.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;">Charlie sank to the floor, cradled
his wounded hand, and made a mental list, exploring every possible explanation
for what was happening to him. It turned
out to be, inevitably, a rather short list:</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 63.8pt;">
<i><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">1. I am
actually, physically, travelling back in time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 63.8pt;">
<i><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2. I am going
mental.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He was naturally inclined to
believe the second one and get on the phone to the funny farm straight away,
but something stopped him. Something about the way Alicia's hair had
smelled. Like coconuts and nicotine. If he inhaled deeply enough,
he was almost sure he could still detect it.
Or at least, he thought he could.
Charlie dismissed the idea temporarily as he rose from the floor and
went in search of a bandage for his hand.
He could be certain of only one thing.
If time travel really existed, then it was purely as a means for the
universe to play a cruel joke on him.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He switched on the battered radio
on the kitchen windowsill before putting his hand under the cold tap. The Pixies were playing on whatever obscure,
too cool for school radio station he had tuned it to months before. “Where Is My Mind?” Charlie swiftly turned the radio off before
it could offer any answers.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>~</i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>To Be Continued</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><a href="http://philipthewriter.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/last-dance-at-yokos-part-4-of-4.html">Read Part Four</a></i></span></div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-27570710937501612612013-09-21T15:01:00.001+01:002013-09-21T15:46:08.731+01:00Last Dance At Yoko's (Part 2 of 4)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie rolled onto his back and
continued to lie there, staring at the ceiling, for half an hour. When that half hour came to an end, and he
had failed to wrap his head around what had just happened, he sat up, walked
into the kitchen and began to make himself some beans on toast.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I’m going to have a word with Twig,” he
muttered to the beans as he stirred them in their pan. “God only knows what was in that stuff he
gave me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The clock on the kitchen wall informed
him it was approaching seven in the evening.
Charlie had left his new acquaintance Janelle’s home at around quarter
past ten. Which meant that he had spent the
entire day hallucinating. And had, at
some point, made it back here safely.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie ate his beans straight from the
pan (there was no bread to make toast), then made a cup of excessively sweet
tea and retired to the sofa that he must have somehow fallen from earlier. It was the only explanation for the collision
with the floor that had ended up waking him.
As for the dream itself, Charlie wasn’t too sure he felt like dwelling
on it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But dwell on it he did, as he lay in bed
that night, sleep evading him at every toss and turn. It was perfectly logical, he decided, as
midnight melted into one, then two, then three.
He had been thinking about Alicia that morning, and then he’d suffered
some ill effects courtesy of Twig, or Dr Clarke, or both. It was only natural that his subconscious
would throw up that night at Yoko’s to tease him; the last time he had ever seen
Alicia, and they had fought.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That had been three years ago. Three years in which Charlie did very little
except go to the pub with his mates from home, the ones who hadn’t gone to
uni. Until one by one they started
getting girlfriends, and jobs, even kids in some cases. Three years passed, and everybody was busy
living, except Charlie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He’d thought about Alicia often, of
course. Constantly, in fact. First
bitterly, licking his wounds, then more tenderly as time went by. He wrote letters that he could never quite
bring himself to send, picked up the phone a million times but always succumbed
to his own cowardice. He’d called her a
cold bitch that last night in Yoko’s, before walking out and leaving her
there. That was what he relived every
time he considered making contact, and the shame always stayed his hand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then eventually, of course, it
didn’t matter if he wrote or not, because Alicia Solomon died. Killed in a car accident along with her new
rugby player boyfriend. In fucking
Australia, no less. Charlie couldn’t
help but think that Alicia would be pleased with that last part. When friends and family spoke of her years
from now, she would be remembered as the tragic, beautiful girl who died before
her time… <i>in Australia</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That was why he had been taken back to
Yoko’s, Charlie decided as the night sky began to pale outside. To him, Alicia had never left the
nightclub. She’d stayed where he’d left
her. Simple psychology, really. As Charlie finally succumbed to sleep, he
resolved to steer clear of Twig, and refrain from taking Dr Clarke’s pills
again. He could do without the guilt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It didn’t dawn
on him until his doorbell rang that evening, stirring him from his bed, that
today was Friday. Charlie didn’t have
much in the way of a routine, or any real notion of structure in his life at
all, but Fridays meant one thing and one thing only: Kat. A former colleague from one of the brief
periods where Charlie had held down a job, she was almost but not quite old
enough to be his mother, but that had never got in the way of them being
mates. And, ever since the day that Kat
had made it painfully clear to Charlie that he would <i>never </i>get into her knickers, very good friends was just what they
had been.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When Charlie had
first heard the news about Alicia, his mother and father had been sympathetic,
as had most of the friends from whom he had drifted apart. Everybody knew what she had meant to
him. But as the months slipped away and
Charlie refused to make even the slightest move in the healthy and expected
direction, people began to lose patience.
Mates returned to the vacuum from which they had appeared, and his
parents rang every so often to make sure he hadn’t hanged himself. But, for the
most part, Charlie was left to his own devices.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Except for Kat. It had mystified Charlie at first, why she
insisted on darkening his door every Friday with a takeaway and a bottle. Her intentions were far from romantic, and
Charlie had never done her such a kindness that it needed returning. In the midst of his greedy, all-consuming
grief, selflessness was something Charlie couldn’t conceive of. A few Fridays had passed before he started to
suspect that Kat might know a little something about what he was going through.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Tell me about
Alicia,” she’d said to him that first Friday, after helping herself to his best
weed. And so Charlie had told her, not
realising until hours after, when he went to sleep, how much he had <i>needed</i> to talk about her, how saying her
name aloud had almost been enough to conjure her back to him, so that she was
part of his world again and not forever dying over and over in a car with a
rugby player on the other side of the world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;">They
had never been what one might call an obvious match, by anyone's
standards. </span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;">While Charlie would fret over whether the Gallagher
brothers were going to see past their differences long
enough for Oasis to produce another album, Alicia would be busy
extolling the virtues of her favourite Sugababes line-up. Nothing
that Charlie owned looked like it cost any more than the spare change which
solely occupied his wallet. Alicia, on
the other hand, was partial to expensive, close-fitting dresses. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It
wasn’t anything as clichéd as “opposites attract”, thank god. More an example of how being utterly,
spectacularly drunk can bring two people together in an unexpected and
serendipitous way. For a short and
blissful time, they were perfect for each other.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Kat
would say nothing as Charlie rambled on for hours about Alicia and Carrow
(because the two were forever intertwined), every film they had gone to see
together, every shit student party, every argument and every reconciliation, everything
but that last evening. She would just listen,
drinking wine and ever rolling another joint.
So yes, she must have known. Must
have lived her own version of Yoko’s at some point. One day, when Charlie was less of a
catastrophe, he intended to return the favour.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Tonight
she had treated them both to a fish supper.
Charlie began to roll a joint in preparation for after the meal, while Kat
hunted through his cupboards for ketchup.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Have
you actually ventured inside a supermarket this year?” She called out from the depths of his fridge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“They’re
overrated,” he shouted back. “Now get in
here and eat your chips before they get cold.
I have a story to tell you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">They
sat cross-legged on the rug in the living room, eating straight from the masses
of crumpled newspaper in their laps.
Between steaming mouthfuls, Charlie told her all about his experience
the day before.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“You’ve
taken all sorts in your time,” he said, when he had recounted the entire
tale. “Has anything like that happened
to you?” It was the first time he’d
mentioned anything to Kat about that final night in Yoko’s, and he could see
her storing that away for further exploration later.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Who’s
to say it didn’t happen for real?” She
asked, seemingly serious.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Beg
pardon?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Well? Is it really so preposterous?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I’d
say so. Maybe we should give the bud a
miss tonight.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Think
about it. You loved Alicia more than
you’ve ever loved anyone. You still
do. The human mind is capable of some
pretty amazing things. Even more so the
human heart. Sure, there’s the rules of
physics and everything that keeps the sky up top instead of down below, but
what if you’ve found a way around all that?
What if, somehow, through sheer force of <i>want</i>,<i> </i>you’ve found a way
back to her?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie
stared at Kat, aghast, for a full minute before she cracked up. A few seconds later, he was laughing along
with her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“On
the other hand,” she snorted, “what a load of bollocks that would be.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“You
are <i>awful</i>,” he admonished.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“It
made you laugh, didn’t it? I was
seriously thinking I’d have to shag you in order to put a smile on that sullen face
of yours.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“That
may still be necessary,” Charlie grabbed a handful of thigh and gave it a
playful squeeze. Kat responded with a
swift, painful jab to his left kidney.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">“Fuck off,” she grinned, as he doubled over in pain.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Then, rather more sweetly: “Would you happen
to have a lighter?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">~</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><i>To Be Continued</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><i><a href="http://philipthewriter.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/last-dance-at-yokos-part-3-of-4.html">Read Part Three</a></i></span></div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-80003241693287502242013-09-20T19:19:00.000+01:002013-09-21T15:17:52.908+01:00Last Dance At Yoko's (Part 1 of 4)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">The first time Charlie Gillespie
found himself in the past, he blamed it on the drugs. </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">A curious mix of Bell's whiskey, the red and yellow caplets
prescribed for anxiety by Dr Clarke, and a couple of slightly less legal party
favours purchased from his old acquaintance Twig in the pub. </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Of all the
possible side effects, travelling through space and time was not one he had
been particularly prepared for.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It started on a Thursday morning. Like a lot of mornings recently, Charlie woke
up hungover, in a bed that was not his own, next to a girl he only vaguely
recognised.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Morning,” she whispered in his
ear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;">“Morning…” he mumbled back, trying
to decide if he needed to be sick or not.
</span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;">Her
name was... Shit, what was her name? He wanted to say Jor-El, but he knew
that was the name of Marlon Brando’s character in <i>Superman</i>. </span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"> </span></span><em><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;">Janelle</span></em><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;">. That was it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“…Janelle. Morning, Janelle.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She
was a good looking girl. A damn sight
prettier than some of the women he’d found himself waking up with in the last
six months. As she got up from the bed
and covered herself with a robe, Charlie spotted a rose tattoo on her left
shoulderblade. Was that why he’d gone
home with her last night? Because that
tattoo had been visible in her revealing dress?
Her dark skin and hair were a factor too, he supposed. Not forgetting those gold hoop earrings. Little things that might have made her look enough
like Alicia to fool him in the hazy stupor of karaoke night at The Crown.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Alicia. The one and only girl Charlie had ever
loved. Not that he ever told her,
mind. He’d thought himself exempt from
that kind of sappy gesture, even when it really counted. And now it was too late. Alicia was gone, and here he was, trying to
get high enough to fashion a decent simulacrum out of some random girl in a bar.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Breakfast?” Janelle asked from the bedroom door. Charlie shook his head and tumbled from the
bed, reaching blindly on the floor for his clothes. A look of understanding formed in Janelle’s
eyes. She was disappointed, but far from
surprised.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I
have to get to work,” Charlie offered, lamely.
She didn’t even need to believe the lie if she didn’t want to. He dressed quickly and was soon out of there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
morning that greeted him as he left the building was bright and
unforgiving. Charlie pulled up the
collar of his jacket and retrieved his iPod from the pocket. One of these days he was going to lose or
break that thing, and he dreaded to think what the walk of shame would be like
without it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie
lit a cigarette and put the player on shuffle, hoping to blast away some of the
cobwebs before he got home. He could
feel the ill effects of everything he had taken last night waiting for him just
out of sight, like an albatross. Biding
their time to hit him when he least expected it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A song came on that he
didn't remember adding: "I Bet You Look Good On The
Dancefloor". Old enough now to qualify as a classic, which
meant it belonged on an entirely different playlist. Charlie
couldn't hear this song without thinking of uni, of how he had gone from
loving it to hating it as the DJs played it to death. And of course,
like everything else at the moment, it made him think of Alicia.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%;">The moment her name
entered his head, the moment he began to picture her face, Charlie felt the
albatross swoop in. The cigarette
dropped from his fingers. The Arctic
Monkeys suddenly sounded very far away.
The edge of his vision frayed into darkness, as if he were about to
faint, and then it happened.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Charlie felt a jolt, a pang in the pit of
his stomach, and the world around him vanished. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For a split second, he was
terrified. He thought he was dead. Then, in the blink of an eye, he
felt something solid under his feet, and the world came rushing back in a surge
of colour and sound. Charlie promptly dropped to his knees and
vomited. He felt hammered. It took him a few moments to scramble to
his feet and realise that the pounding he could feel wasn't in his head - it
was the rhythmic <i>thump thump thump</i> of a nightclub.
He looked around. The walls weren't closing in on him like he'd first
feared; he was simply in a toilet cubicle, standing next to a small puddle of
sick. With aching, trembling fingers, Charlie slid back the bolt on the
cubicle door and stepped out into the room<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The sight of urinals filled him
with relief; he hadn’t blindly stumbled into that sacred territory marked
“Ladies”. It looked like any gents
lavatory in any club. He could be anywhere. Charlie couldn't
remember the last time he'd blacked out so completely. It was a small miracle
that any bouncer in their right mind had let him come in, the state he was
in. Charlie rinsed out his mouth at one of the sinks, then stumbled out
of the toilets and into a red, tunnel-like hallway.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">An
oft-cited cliché tried to form on his tongue, but he struggled to get
the words out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Toto," he
rasped. "Kansas."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He was dreaming. He had to
be. The garish pop art on the walls, the sticky floor, the smell of
aniseed and cigarette smoke... There was no mistaking it; he was in
Yoko's. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Impossible," he said,
clearing his throat.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"You what, mate?"
A young man leaning against the wall looked up from his phone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Is this Yoko's?"
Charlie asked. The man laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Had a bit too much have
we?" He finished texting, then met Charlie's eye again. "Yeah,
we're in Yoko's."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A dream, Charlie
decided. <i>Definitely </i>a dream. Because Yoko's never
opened in the day. Yoko’s was miles from here. Yoko’s closed its doors for good
almost two years ago. And yet… He couldn’t recall ever having a dream this
vivid. The smells, the sounds. Most of them quite unpleasant. Charlie wandered further down the red
corridor, towards the music. <i>Déjà vu </i>did not even begin to describe
what he was feeling. Already seen? Already <i>lived</i>,
more like. He had spent longer than he
cared to mention in this smoky corner of Carrow, off his head when he should
have been working to achieve something other than a third class degree. It had been a second home to him… and her. Always her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie emerged into the club
itself, where the Arctic Monkeys were blearing from the sound system, almost as
if to greet him. “I Bet You Look Good On
The Dancefloor.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He needed a drink. Or a dose of anti-psychotics. But he’d settle for a drink. Charlie made his way through the sparse crowd
to the bar, and ordered a double whiskey.
He knocked it back before realising he didn’t have any money.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Fuck,” he muttered, patting his
jacket and jeans knowing full well he would find nothing there. He smiled uselessly at the barmaid, a skinny
blonde with a hard, thin mouth, while trying to think up some excuse or
platitude. Before he could come out with
anything, he saw a slender hand push a ten pound note across the bar in the
direction of the blonde girl.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie knew that hand. He knew those polished red nails, the white
gold pinkie ring, and the tiny scar on the thumb (from an incident involving
lots of wine and a noble attempt at making bacon sandwiches). Charlie looked up at the owner of the
hand. She smiled, and then she slapped
him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Where the hell have you
been?” She asked furiously. “I’ve been waiting here like an idiot for
over an hour.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">His cheek burned where she had
struck him. Definitely not a dream,
then.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Alicia,” he said, “I don’t
understand.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“What’s not to understand?” She asked.
“We arranged to meet here at nine and you didn’t show up. <i>Again</i>.” She signalled to the barmaid for another shot
and then necked it, wincing slightly.
Neat spirits had never agreed with Alicia; she was a ros</span></span><span style="line-height: 19.1875px; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">é</span></span><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> girl at heart. She slammed the glass
down on the bar, as if to punish it for the vile taste of the whiskey, and then
returned her glare to its rightful recipient: him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie remembered this row. He remembered this whole evening. It was the last night of university. Tomorrow, they would both leave Carrow; Alicia
would go home to London and Charlie would go back to Bristol, and they would
never see each other again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Alicia,” Charlie whispered, and
then he said something that could not be heard under the din of the club.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“What?” She asked, leaning in. Charlie repeated himself, but she shook her
head and held her hand up to her ear, sidling ever closer. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“You’re <i>dead,</i>” Charlie shouted into her ear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The beat stopped. The bar that Charlie was leaning on vanished,
and Alicia disappeared along with it.
Charlie fell into darkness, grappling for a hold on something, anything,
before colliding with something hard and flat.
It might have knocked him out cold, or he might have awoken straight
away – he couldn’t be sure. All he knew
was that when he opened his eyes, he was lying face-down on the living room
floor in his flat.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">~</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>To Be Continued</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><a href="http://philipthewriter.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/last-dance-at-yokos-part-two.html">Read Part Two</a></i></span></div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-45223290528767212762012-12-24T12:52:00.000+00:002012-12-24T12:52:02.610+00:00I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 200%;"> </span></b><b><span style="font-variant: small-caps; line-height: 200%;">I saw Daddy kissing Santa Claus.</span></b><b><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span></b><span style="line-height: 200%;">That was
this time last year. I don't see much of Daddy these days. Mummy
made sure of that, with something called an injunction. I can't say I'm
100% sure on what an "injunction" is, but it sounds painful, and I
think it involves needles of some kind. Now
it's nearly Christmas again, and I've been really good this year, so I’ve written
a second letter to Santa with a very special request. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I asked if he and Daddy could come down from the
North Pole where they live together, and have Christmas dinner with me and
Mummy. I haven't told Mummy about the letter, as every time I mention
Daddy she starts throwing around the word "migraine" and then I have
to go and play in my room. I think it is
best kept a secret, for now at least. After all, everybody is nicer on
Christmas Day - surely if Daddy and Santa show up, she'll have to make them
welcome? We did a whole play on it at school.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Tonight is Christmas Eve. Mummy has laid out
a carrot for Rudolph, but she refuses to leave a mince pie or glass of milk for
Santa. I feel the beginnings of doubt in the bottom of my stomach.
What if she goes into one of her very grown-up strops tomorrow? I know
there is nothing to be done about it now, so I let her tuck me in and kiss me
goodnight, then squeeze my eyes shut. I can't get to sleep straight away,
so I occupy myself by trying to remember all the names of Santa's
reindeer. There's Rudolph, of course, but I always struggle with the
others. Donner. Dancer. Prancer. Dasher? Cupid
and Blitzen. The other names evade me as I drift off.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I wake up early the next morning, and run into
Mummy’s room, shaking her shoulder until she opens her eyes and grumbles at me
to put the kettle on. I carefully make a
cup of coffee, like she showed me, and take it up to her in bed. She gulps half of it down and then smiles at
me mischievously, reaching under her pillow and retrieving a small red box with
a green bow. She hands it to me and I
rip it open – it is a new bicycle bell. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Your bike will look good as new with that snazzy
new bell,” she says, finishing her coffee.
I force a smile and I say thank you, even though I feel a little
crushed. I’d asked for a brand new bike
this year.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We go downstairs together and Mummy makes us both
cheese toasties for breakfast. When I
have eaten mine, and washed the crumbs from my hands, I am allowed to choose a
present to open from my stocking on the hearth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It is a book.
I smile and say thank you again, slightly less convincingly, and then I
give Mummy her present, the one I have spent the last few weeks working
on. I’ve made her a photo album. I have avoided putting in pictures of Daddy,
so mainly it is just photos of Mummy and me, padded out with pictures of
Mummy’s brothers and sisters and Granny and Granddad.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Oh, sweetheart,” Mummy says, tearing up. “I love it.
Thank you.” She hugs me so
tightly that it hurts a bit, and kisses me on the cheek, leaving a wet lipstick
print behind. I wait until her back is
turned and rub my cheek furiously with my sleeve.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The next present I open is a bookmark. To go with the book, I suppose. I can’t help sighing just a bit, and
immediately I feel the room go cold.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Sorry, darling, if this isn’t quite up to
scratch,” Mummy says icily.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“No,” I protest, “it’s fine, honest.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Fine? Oh,
it’s <i>fine?</i> Well <i>maybe</i> if your pervert
of a father hadn't decided to up and run off with Pere Noel, we'd be able to
afford better presents. But he didn't. And we can't. So you'd
best like it or lump it, my little prince!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I apologise, and Mummy calms down. I am starting to seriously rethink my genius
plan when the doorbell rings. It can’t
be them, can it? Daddy and Santa? It’s too early! I look at the clock and realise I must have
woken up later than I thought – it’s nearly noon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Oh no,” I whisper under my breath, and as Mummy
leaves the room to answer the door, I think I might be sick.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“What are <i>you</i>
doing here?!” I hear her shriek from the
hallway. “And you brought <i>him</i> with you? What were you thinking?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“We thought you knew,” I hear Daddy say, calmly.
“We got a letter…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don’t hear the rest of the conversation, but I am
familiar enough with the stern, adult tone they are using with each other to
know that I am in serious trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When Mummy re-enters the living room, she is
followed by Daddy and Santa. Santa isn’t
wearing his uniform, which surprises me at first, but then I imagine he must be
shattered after his night shift.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I think you have some explaining to do,” Daddy
says to me, but I am just so happy to see him that I begin to tear up, and
simply run into his arms. Suddenly, the
loudest thing in the room is Mummy’s silence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Please let them stay,” I plead into Daddy’s
jumper. “Please can they stay?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don’t have to be able to see Mummy to sense her
exasperation as she sighs and reluctantly agrees.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Thank you,” Santa says quietly, clearly
embarrassed by the whole thing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For the next few hours, Mummy busies herself in the
kitchen preparing lunch, clutching a glass of white wine like a good luck
charm, leaving Daddy, Santa and me in the living room, playing with the toys
they brought me. I am so grateful to
have them there that I don’t dare ask Santa why I didn’t get the bike I asked
for in my first letter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When the four of us sit down together, Mummy
insists on carving.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“After all,” she declares, “I’ve become the man of
this house. It was a desperately
deprived role.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dinner is eaten in near-silence, and I start to
feel rather foolish. This is far too much
like the Christmases we had before Daddy moved in with Santa – quiet and
tense. I finally understand that
grown-up expression “an atmosphere you could cut with a knife”. Maybe things would have been best if I hadn’t
written my letter at all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But it <i>is </i>good
to have Daddy around again, even if it is only for the day. I hadn’t realised how much I missed him until
I saw him come through the living room door earlier, holding Santa’s hand. I think Mummy has noticed too – that this is
the Christmas present I wanted more than anything, even more than a bike. I keep seeing her from the corner of my eye,
watching me and Daddy. I wonder if this
means she will let me see him more. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Over Christmas pudding and custard, it strikes me
that I’ve been rather selfish. I wished
and wished for what <i>I </i>wanted for
Christmas, when I should have been looking for a way to make Mummy less
sad. I decide that my New Year’s
Resolution will be to cheer her up properly, so that she’ll be the way she used
to be.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After dinner, everybody avoids looking at me when I
suggest we play a game. I think Mummy
wants Daddy and Santa to go. Santa tries
to shake her hand as they leave, but all he gets in return is one of her famous
frosty glances. Daddy at least gets a
hug, before he sweeps me up into a huge kiss and cuddle. Then they are gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I thank Mummy as she closes the front door behind
them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“You’re welcome, my little prince,” she says. “He’s your Daddy; I never should have made
him stay away.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“So I’ll get to see him more?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Yes. As
much as you like.” She replies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“And might I be able to go and stay with him and
Santa, up at the North Pole?” I
continue, hopefully. Mummy freezes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“We’ll see,” she says, finally.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">~</span></span></div>
Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-83221346709457899412012-04-20T09:54:00.000+01:002012-04-20T09:54:34.990+01:00Changeling<div class="WordSection2" style="page: WordSection2;"><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So quiet is the night that her footsteps can be heard long before she appears. As the girl makes her way out of the black woods, into the sheer white of the outside world, no footprints mark the snow behind her. She is thin and pale, and her hair is so fair it is almost white. If anybody were to see her, they might mistake her for ghost, or something like it. Something not quite of this world.</span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She carries a woolen bundle in her frail, skinny arms. A soft breath coos up at her from its depths. She attempts to ignore it. If she avoids looking down at the tiny creature, she thinks this will be easier.</span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The white road brings her to a village. Only a handful of houses, it would appear, all of which sit still and silent under their snowy blanket. One house seems to beckon to her. She moves towards it, pulled closer by instinct and a deeper knowledge. </span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She stops at a ground floor window. Her breath on the glass turns to a glittering frost. Using her one free, frail hand, she opens the window and climbs inside. A crib stands before her. The walls are decorated with various birds and farmyard animals. A colourful plaque hangs from the wall over the crib:</span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Zachary</span></i><span lang="EN-US">.</span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">No noise comes from the cot. The pale girl knows why. Death took this child, took its breath and its soul, earlier this night. She felt it from her home beyond the woods, and she sensed an opportunity. </span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With her left arm she scoops up the still, cold babe, and with her right she leaves another child in his place. He stirs as she lays him down, his tiny fists tighten, then he goes back to sleep. The pale girl’s icy breath catches in her throat. Her beautiful, forbidden child. </span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This home will have a new Zachary.</span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She whispers words that would be inaudible to human ears; words that creep out into the stuffy bedroom air and settle on the infant in the cradle. They are words to dull the brightness in his eyes and flatten the sharpness of his delicate features. His pointed little ears become fatter, rounder, more human. To this boy’s new parents, he will be the image of their own child.</span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The pale girl leans forward to kiss her baby’s warm brow, and his skin glistens for a moment in the darkness where her lips touched it. She climbs through the window as silently as she entered, and slides it shut with one hand. </span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"I will see you again,” she promises, although even she is unsure. She turns away from the human house, holding their own lost boy to her chest, and she goes back the way she came.</span></span></div><div class="Standard" style="line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Her wails can be heard for several hours after she vanishes back into the woods, but if anybody is woken by her unearthly cries, they will simply turn over in their beds and think it is the wind.</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~</span></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"Changeling" is taken from my Kindle anthology <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sweet-Tooth-ebook/dp/B004LGTRBW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1334912007&sr=8-1">Sweet Tooth</a>.</i></span></span></div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-81032471808570883352012-04-13T11:17:00.000+01:002012-04-13T11:17:14.772+01:00Nobody's Cub<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> <span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Once upon a time there was a young bear cub called Freddie. He belonged to nobody, and nobody belonged to him. He used to be very nonchalant and Holly Golightly about this, but if he's honest with himself (and he rarely is), he would like nothing more than to be able to point to somebody and say to a stranger "oh, they're with me", or "I'm with them", or some such lark.</span></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He tries to get out there, to look for love as if a thing like love can be found on a map, X marks the spot and ever after, but for one reason or another his efforts are as empty and as fruitless as his cold, dinner-for-one lair. While others go on the prowl, Freddie stands by the wall, lonelier than a Smiths song, and when he eventually does pluck up the courage to follow the sign that says <i>Bears Upstairs</i>, all he can think is how much like a bedtime story it sounds, or a TV show for children. The Bears Upstairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Freddie's knees tremble as he ascends each step, anxiety creating blurry panic in his head and chest. What if his fur isn't as shiny as that of the other bears? Will they laugh at his small, non-aggressive growl? Are their eyes browner, their claws sharper?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As it turns out, the bears upstairs are no different to the other animals. When they laugh it is with no joy, all they care about is milk and honey. Freddie groans, a bear with a sore head, and once again heads out into the night alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Except something about tonight is different. On his way home, Freddie meets a man who calls himself Luke. His hair is flecked with silver and so are his eyes. Certainly not a bear, and Freddie doesn't know how he feels about having a daddy. But it is a bitterly cold night, so Freddie lets Luke take him by the hand and take him to his lair. His grip is firm, warm. It feels to Freddie like lying in a warm bed while a storm rages outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When they reach Luke's door, the man takes the young bear's coat like a gent and shows him inside. The man's house is cosy and warm, which is perhaps why Freddie allows himself to relax. A small fire entertains itself beneath the mantle, casting shadows that he doesn't notice straight away. It is only when he and Luke have sat down, when Freddie cracks a poor joke and Luke laughs, grinning widely in the process, that he realises.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"My," he finds himself saying, "what big teeth you have."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then he sees the shadows of large, pointed ears cast by firelight against the wall, and he forces himself to look closer at Luke. At his pale eyes, and prominent nose... not Roman, but a snout maybe. Freddie has never had reason to keep track of these things, but he suddenly, strongly suspects that if one were to glance outside tonight, the moon would be full.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Wolf!" He cries, and Luke flinches as if Freddie has sworn. Freddie throws himself off the sofa, grabs his coat with one hand and the doorknob with the other, but then something makes him turn around to look at the wolf in designer clothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why, then, does the young cub not run?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Because when Luke laughed, Freddie heard the genuine mirth in it, the joy. Because his grip had been firm and warm, and because there is a fire in the hearth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Freddie looks at Luke, but that joy is gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"I understand," says the wolf. "Go back to your people."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The coat slips from Freddie's fingers, and he returns to sit with Luke.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"We're all animals underneath," he says, and kisses him. Luke grins wolfishly, and this time his giant fangs do not fill Freddie with fear; rather, something akin to desire. And who is to judge? Everybody wants to be loved; it is the nature of the beast.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Besides," Freddie adds between kisses, "I have spent enough time in the company of bears."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="standard" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">... And they lived happily ever after, if you like.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> ~</span></span></div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-31576763231053790912012-03-23T11:43:00.000+00:002012-03-23T11:43:32.933+00:00Personal Effects<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It didn’t feel like <i>that</i><span style="font-size: small;"> serious a bump on the head. Certainly not enough to kill her. But, here she was, standing over her own body, wondering what exactly was supposed to happen next. It occurred to Eliza, just a few minutes after she slipped on a stray magazine and a brief collision with the coffee table ended her life prematurely, that her living room was kind of a mess.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Eliza Brink?” A nervous, almost adolescent voice queried from behind her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What the…” Eliza span around, intending to chastise this intruder. “You made me jump out of my skin!” She admonished. “Or, out of my ectoplasm.” That thought made her wrinkle her nose. “I don’t know. I’m not entirely sure what figures of speech are appropriate for this particular situation.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She turned her attention to her new guest. Tall, skinny, with hair that could do with a good trim and a denim jacket that had definitely seen better days.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Who the hell are you, anyway?” She asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Ah! Right…” The stranger reached into his jean pocket, pulled out a tiny rectangle of paper and proceeded to unfold it until it was the size of a broadsheet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I am the Reaper,” he read aloud, forming the words like a child who has only just learned to read. “But fear not, Eliza, for I am here to take you to a better place.” With that, he refolded the creased document and returned it to his pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Is that it?” Eliza asked, incredulous. “That paper was huge.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“The rest is directions,” he told her. “I’m new.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“How new?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Very.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Eliza rolled her eyes, then sadly realised that it didn’t quite have the same effect when her actual eyes were at floor level, staring at the ceiling.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Fine,” she said, “but I have some things to do first.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Oh, sorry,” he shook his head, “that’s not how it works. There’s no time allotted in your schedule for unfinished business. Seems you must have kept your house in order, so to speak.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Except I clearly didn’t,” Eliza snapped, “or I might not have been killed by a rogue <i>Marie-Claire</i>. No. I’m staying to tidy up. Can’t have anyone finding my body in this bombsite.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Why not?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Why do you bloody well think? Because by the time the story gets around, they’ll be saying I was half eaten by cats and nobody missed me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Jesus, lady…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Oh. <i>Oh no</i>. Enough of the lady. I may well not be eighteen anymore, but I don’t think I’ve quite reached <i>lady</i> yet! Not that I ever will now, I suppose.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was the Grim Reaper’s turn to roll his eyes. Eliza took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, glad to discover that it had a calming effect even when no air was going taken in or out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Listen,” she said. “What’s your name?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Pete,” he replied. Eliza perched herself on the arm of the sofa and patted the spot next to her. The grungy youth sat down next to her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Well, Pete…” She patted his knee, relieved that hand sanitiser would no longer be an issue, and said: “Is there any way, <i>any way at all</i>, that you could help me out? Please?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pete’s eyes flitted from the hand on his knee, to her chest, and then past her to the body on the carpet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Are you flirting with me?” He asked. “Because, I mean, I’m flattered and everything, and you are <i>fit</i>, but I just don’t think I’d be comfortable doing anything…” He lowered his voice to a whisper; “…with <i>that</i> in the room.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Eliza removed her hand from his knee as quickly as humanly possible, and stood. Pete recoiled ever so slightly, as if she were about to slap him, but she simply began picking up detritus from the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What are you doing?” He asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Masturbating,” she barked. “What does it look like, you cretin? I’m tidying up.” She vanished into the kitchen for a moment, then re-emerged with a bin bag. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pete could only watch, and quietly despair. What was she going to do next, go upstairs and turn her mattress? Clean the toilet? This was <i>exactly</i> the kind of thing he’d been worried about. What had kept him up half of last night. He’d read her file beforehand, naturally. (Preparation is key in any job, his mum had told him that, before sending him off to Nando’s, CV in hand.) She seemed like quite a handful, for his very first job. His superiors had simply said, should a “situation” arise, to simply use his initiative.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Because initiative is something one is bound to find in a seventeen year old who died by falling off a motorbike while trying to impress a girl. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Oh, Cindy,” he murmured wistfully, “we could have been so good together.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He had a vague notion that Eliza had gone upstairs, but was too deep in his own reverie to notice – until she descended in high heels, a fur coat and ridiculously large sunglasses.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What… is… that?” Pete asked, resisting the urge to tell her how much it reminded him of his nana’s nervous breakdown.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What, this old thing? Nothing.” Eliza shrugged. “Right! Let’s blow this joint.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Um. Not so fast… You can’t wear that.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Why not?” She looked down at herself, then back at him. “What’s wrong with it?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Nothing at all! It’s very… nice. But you didn’t die in it.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I’m sorry?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You can’t take it with you because it’s not what you died in.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Oh. That’s a rather unkind rule, don’t you think? What happens to all the people who die in those arse-less hospital gowns?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Exactly what you’d expect to happen, I’m afraid.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Eliza grimaced, then acquiesced. She removed the shades, then the coat, and finally stepped out of the kitten heels. Then her eyes lit up with inspiration, and she strode over to where her body lay on the rug.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I might not have died in them,” she muttered to herself, “but I can make people <i>think</i> I did…” Then, to Pete, she said; “Come on, help me with this. Then I’ll be ready to go, I promise.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pete sighed, crouched by the body, and heaved the immobile torso up, enabling Eliza to wrap the fur around her own cold shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You’re just lucky rigor mortis hasn’t set in,” Pete told her. “It would make this twice as difficult.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Yeah, I’m having a really lucky day,” Eliza responded, pulling both Ugg boots off the body and forcing its feet into the Manolos. Finally, she placed the sunglasses delicately onto her own face, which had turned a rather unflattering shade of blue. The moment those glassy, unseeing eyes were concealed, she began to feel better.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You know, the Ancient Greeks used to put coins over the eyes of their dead,” Pete said quietly. “So they could pay the boatman on the River Styx.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Well, those cost a pretty penny,” Eliza said, rising to her feet. “I imagine my fare will be paid a few times over.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You look a right picture,” Pete said, gesturing to the body with his foot. “In a nice way, I mean.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Don’t I?” Eliza beamed. “People will think I was off out to the opera.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Is it important to you?” Pete asked. “What people think?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I never thought so,” she said, gazing down at herself, “but yes. It is.” She was silent for a moment, then leant in as if to tell him a secret. “I had a look through my cupboards when I was cleaning. Found lots of coffee, and even more wine. Not much food. I hid a few bottles of vino in the back yard – didn’t want anyone thinking I was a lush.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Fair’s fair,” Pete agreed. “Are you ready to go now?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I think so,” Eliza nodded. She glanced around the now spotless living room, then down at her body one last time. “Come on then. Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pete smiled, even though this reference flew right over his head. He took Eliza by the hand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Let’s get this show on the road,” he said, suddenly nervous. Eliza squeezed his hand, and together they walked through the living room wall.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~</span></span></div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-69789626038357098442012-03-16T11:34:00.001+00:002012-03-16T11:39:17.009+00:00Face Of The New World<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><b><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Daisy Wyatt Interview<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span style="line-height: 200%;">She sparked a global scandal, made history, and has been on the receiving end of endless fan mail and death threats. Vanity Fair editor <b>Rachel Black</b> sat down for an exclusive <em><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">tête</span></em></span></i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; color: #222222; line-height: 200%;">-à-</span><em><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; line-height: 200%;">tête</span></em><span style="line-height: 200%;"> <i>with Daisy Wyatt and found out just how a bookie’s daughter from Yorkshire became arguably the most famous woman of the 21<sup>st</sup> century.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I first meet Daisy Wyatt in intimate surroundings; after the location of her hotel in North London was leaked to the press, she was forced to take refuge in a small guest house. I can see straight away that Wyatt feels more at home in this cosier environment. She wears simple jeans and a cardigan, and her dark hair tumbles over her shoulders in what has become known as her signature style (and has been imitated by many of her fans).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I comment on her newfound status as a style icon among everything else, she laughs, then looks away. Clearly, then, Wyatt is a girl for whom appearance has never been a priority – although she possesses alabaster skin to die for, and her eyes have a soulful, pensive quality that make me wonder if, in another lifetime, she might have been an actress.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Wyatt, née Sullivan, was born in Harrogate, the only child of Mick and Carol. Her mother died when she was a toddler, and she was raised by her father. “He did the best he could,” she says now, her voice warming as she speaks of him. “He would always go without to make sure I had books, shoes, school uniform.” When I ask Daisy what her father thinks of her newfound notoriety, she refuses to answer. It can’t be easy, I go on, for her to maintain a semblance of ordinary family life, when she has been hounded by a media circus for much of the last year. “It’s amazing what you can get used to,” she says defiantly, which I suppose is just as well, considering where she is headed in less than a month.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Did you know,” she asks, gazing into the fireplace of this tiny parlour, “that there was more coverage on my wedding day than the Royal Wedding?” I tell her yes, I do know. Every channel imaginable gathered a panel of talking heads to express their opinion; everyone from Jeremy Kyle to the Archbishop of Canterbury had their say.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I want to ask her about Edgar Wyatt, her first husband, but he is on the long, long list of subjects I have been forbidden to discuss. Still, since I will never again have the chance to be in the same room as Daisy, I feel it is worth the risk.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Are you still in touch with Edgar?” I ask, preparing for her to flinch, or for her expression to harden.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Not for a very long time,” she answers, remarkably calmly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“He has been markedly silent since the story first broke last Spring. Why do you think that is?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“He’s a good man. A better person than I, certainly. I hurt him terribly, but he would never seek to profit from that.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“It is common knowledge that you and Edgar were on your honeymoon that night in Cornwall.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Daisy raises an eyebrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“That night?” She smiles. “You mean the night my life changed forever?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“The night the entire world changed,” I say. It is a date seared into living memory. The night that humankind first made contact with alien life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I was just out for a walk,” Daisy mumbles, clearly tired of telling the tale. “Ed was in the camper sleeping. I went down to the beach, fancied paddling…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“And then, like a comet, it appeared,” I finish for her. Every man, woman and child in the world knows the words to this bedtime story.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Yes,” she says. “My first thought, although it seems ridiculous now, was that I would die that night. I thought it was an asteroid, or meteor, that would drop into the ocean like a pebble into a pond, and the ripples would send a tidal wave to snuff me out.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“But that’s not what happened,” I prompt her, aware that our interview time is running out. Soon Daisy will be ushered out of this B&B and sent to a new, more highly confidential location.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“No, that’s not what happened. Although my life did end that night, in a way. The life where I worked in Ladbrokes and married my sweetheart. Nothing was ever the same again…” She tears up, and I decide to push her no further. We all know how this story ends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A saucer, so similar to those in the films, descended from the clouds, spinning out of control. It crashed into the water, skipping just like Daisy’s pebble, until it collided with the beach, a mere twenty yards from where Daisy stood. Edgar, having heard the unearthly sound, ran from their VW to find Daisy, and together they watched as the saucer opened, and the first extra-terrestrial to set foot on Earth staggered, injured, onto the beach.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The rest is history.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Edgar and Daisy split soon after, around the same time that Downing Street and Buckingham Palace introduced the visitor to the world. Following the break-up, as more and more ships gathered around Earth to meet the new neighbours, Edgar became unavailable for comment, retreating to his family home in Leeds, where his loved ones closed ranks. Daisy found it harder to shake the press. First, she was known simply as The UFO Chaser’s Wife. But months later, when her marriage with Edgar had been annulled, she did the unthinkable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Daisy Wyatt, née Sullivan, became the first human woman to marry an alien.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I never wanted to make history,” she tells me now, as her guardians tell me my time is up. “I just fell in love.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And what more is there to say, really? It is a twist, albeit a groundbreaking one, on the oldest story in the book. Soon, Daisy will set yet another precedent by being the first person to leave Earth on an alien ship. As we stand, shake hands, and part ways, I sense fear in Daisy, as well as endless wonder. Hers will be the first eyes to see her husband’s home world; she will explore the galaxy in ways that Earth’s astronauts can only dream of. An indescribably adventure, yes, but also a daunting one. </span>I wish her every happiness as we part ways, and can only hope that this second honeymoon is an improvement on the first.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~</span></span></div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-81752389068573961852012-03-09T10:31:00.000+00:002012-03-09T10:31:06.994+00:00Juliet 2.0<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFFTp_88qQ6KGlga5K2ZBVvZvI0W_cTjwJnbXhcbzCM2giE1r8-8zYOVliBbGLMNkFHIskwi_SMNshOgSg3vSCw7iY0Sr4jE8-9kzQoY_c7mOQ2YN-8kIPVhGZxQBI_bo3kqUwAot_Y7o/s1600/juliet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFFTp_88qQ6KGlga5K2ZBVvZvI0W_cTjwJnbXhcbzCM2giE1r8-8zYOVliBbGLMNkFHIskwi_SMNshOgSg3vSCw7iY0Sr4jE8-9kzQoY_c7mOQ2YN-8kIPVhGZxQBI_bo3kqUwAot_Y7o/s320/juliet.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It is never a good sign when your phone starts to ring in the middle of the night. I reach out from under the duvet and fumble around on the nightstand, accidentally knocking the phone onto the floor in the process. I mutter some choice words into my pillow and retrieve the phone, answering it while still face down.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Hello?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Ty! It’s me, I need your help.” It takes me a moment to recognise my cousin’s hushed voice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Jules?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You need to get over here,” she tells me. “Now.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What’s the matter?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“There is some guy in our yard!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span style="line-height: 150%;">“What?”</span></i><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“He’s creeping me out. Can you come over?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Who is it? Do you know him?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Yeah…” I can practically <i>hear</i> her biting her lip. “I may have danced with him earlier tonight. I thought he was cute, but that was before I realised he’s that psycho who’s had the hots for Rosie. Real stalker material, you know?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“And what exactly is he doing in your yard?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Juliet sighs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I think he’s professing his love for me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“For you?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I know. Rosie will be so relieved he’s not bothering <i>her</i> anymore.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Do you think he’s dangerous?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I don’t know. All the doors are locked, so he can’t get in. But Dad’s away and Mum took one of her sleeping pills, so I’m all alone out here. I think I’d feel much safer if you came over and told him to get lost.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Of course.” I stumble across the room in the dark, in search of my trousers. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just shut the curtains and pretend you’re not home.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Thanks, Ty. I owe you one.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Don’t worry about it cuz.” I hang up and pull on a shirt, before grabbing my car keys and heading out into the night.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-42224071719189917872012-02-17T00:02:00.001+00:002012-02-17T00:04:45.303+00:00A Cup Of Warm Sake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBicSLCBW4yEWKBwpQE6HNRc_WtIv6vKfHZkqDkwsUaug-4kOye8UvEmAXEAeOWejyeQe-QP9UvV3N6EG9BhTPUqykBhWpmWB97TsLrPQ_oo-vneStehT1hlTJbu4eutidPzVLSv88c-YN/s1600/The_Strong_Oi_Pouring_Sake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBicSLCBW4yEWKBwpQE6HNRc_WtIv6vKfHZkqDkwsUaug-4kOye8UvEmAXEAeOWejyeQe-QP9UvV3N6EG9BhTPUqykBhWpmWB97TsLrPQ_oo-vneStehT1hlTJbu4eutidPzVLSv88c-YN/s320/The_Strong_Oi_Pouring_Sake.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-indent: 9px;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You mean to say you’ve never seen <i>Jules et Jim</i><span style="font-size: small;">?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I nod, and wonder why this is such a terrible crime. You would think, from the way that Sophie’s eyes have widened, that I’d just confessed to sacrificing household pets.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“It’s a classic,” Sophie tells me, which means absolutely nothing except to say that it is her own favourite film.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“If you say so,” I reply. “Personally, I think it takes more than subtitles and shagging to make a decent piece of cinema.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For a moment I can’t tell if I’ve offended her, but then she smiles and effortlessly picks up another piece of California roll. When she suggested sushi for our first date, I thought she was a girl after my own heart, but there’s something curiously emasculating about her nimble manipulation of the chopsticks. I fumble with my own for half a minute, then shamefacedly resort to using my fingers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sophie goes on to ask me what the last book I read was, and I chew my salmon for far longer than necessary while trying to decide whether to namedrop an impressive doorstep of a novel or simply tell the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“<i>Freakonomics</i>,” I say eventually. Sophie gives me a look of sheer, undiluted blankness for a moment, then launches into an impassioned case for why her new favourite read, <i>Chocolat</i>, might be the best book ever written. I resist the urge to ask her whether she might prefer our date if I were an actual Frenchman, and reach for the tokkuri of sake that the waitress has just brought to the table.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Oh, no thank you,” Sophie wrinkles her nose and places a delicate, defensive hand over her tiny cup. “I can’t stand that stuff.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I shrug and help myself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“It’s an acquired taste,” I say, not meaning to sound half as patronising as I do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">An uncomfortable silence falls on the table as Sophie nibbles on a sliver of ginger and I drink my sake. <i>Why isn’t this working?</i> I ask myself. I’m sat across from an attractive, arguably intelligent, <i>attractive</i> woman, but something doesn’t feel right. And it’s not just the chopstick thing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I awkwardly scrape the caviar off the one remaining piece of sushi before eating it. Sophie watches me as I do it, and her expression once again betrays my sacrilege. I bet she’s the kind of person who drinks champagne, regardless of whether she enjoys it or not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The waitress brings us the bill. <i>Your server tonight was Aiko</i>, it says. Aiko is quite pretty. <i>That’s not a good train of thought to be following on a date</i>, I tell myself. <i>Especially when, if you play your cards right, you could still be onto a sure thing…</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I pay, and Sophie doesn’t even slightly pretend to reach for her wallet; somehow that makes her seem charmingly old-fashioned. I don’t know if it’s the beer I had before dinner, or the sake, or maybe just the way Sophie looks as she stands up and smoothens her dress, but I’m starting to feel pretty good about tonight. At the very least, I had dinner with a beautiful girl (and I may have written my phone number on the cheque for Aiko).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The taxi rank is just down the street, and Sophie leans into me as we walk out into the cold night air. I instinctively wrap an arm around her shoulder, and find myself baffled at how naturally all this comes when there isn’t a table and conversation and bloody <i>Jules et Jim</i> getting in the way of everything.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I had a great time tonight,” Sophie says, and I say the same, even though I doubt either of us really did. It’s just part of the ritual. Nobody likes to be rude, not when there’s the slightest chance of coitus in the air. When we reach the first taxi, she places one hand on the passenger door, but lingers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is it. That brief, tender window in which she decides whether or not to invite me back to hers for a nightcap. I can tell almost straight away that whatever I’ve done tonight has been enough to swing the verdict in my favour; as I am about to bid Sophie goodnight, she stands up on tiptoe and kisses me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She’s a little more forceful than I’d expected, and she tastes like lip gloss and salmon, but I’ve kissed worse. Yet still, I pull away. Some girls are just like caviar. I know I <i>should</i> like it, but for some reason I just don’t.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At first Sophie looks confused, then wounded, but they both quickly give way to icy indifference. “Night then,” she sniffs, and gets into the car.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was a lovely first date, but I very much doubt there will be a second. <i>Why?</i> A horny, indignant voice in my head asks as Sophie’s taxi vanishes around a corner. <i>Why on earth would you pass that up</i>? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4.0pt; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Because,” I tell myself out loud, “I am warm sake, and she is caviar.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 4pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~</span><o:p></o:p></div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-28775386571533106562012-02-10T10:51:00.000+00:002012-02-10T10:51:42.586+00:00Midnight<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 7.1pt;"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 8.5pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You kill the engine at the bottom of Carla’s street and turn off your headlights just like she asked. The clock on the dashboard reads 23:58; not long now.<span style="font-size: small;"> You circled the block three times before coming this far, have been a nervous wreck all day. The quiet is fucking unbearable, but you can’t put the radio on because she wants you to wait in complete silence. 23:58 blinks into 23:59 and you can’t stop your fingers drumming restlessly on the steering wheel. Then the clock tells you it is 00:00, and she isn’t here. She said she would be here at midnight. What’s kept her? Has something gone wrong? <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It is 00:05 when you finally see Carla approaching. Her face is unreadable as she nears the car, and she doesn’t speak as she gets in on the passenger side. Her trembling hands struggle to fasten the seatbelt, so you strap her in like you would a child, then turn the key in the ignition without saying a word. It’s 00:09 and you’ve driven at least a mile when she finally says;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“This feels too easy.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I know what you mean,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the road.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Not sure that you do, hon.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She fiddles with the heating vent and rubs her bare legs. That’s when you notice the tiny dress she’s wearing, and tell her there’s a jacket on the back seat. She kicks off her heels, curls up on the passenger seat and pulls the denim over her like a blanket. For all her lipstick and nail polish, right now she could be a little girl.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You soon leave the town behind, turning your headlights to full beam as you hit the pitch black country roads. She begins to doze, and you begin to understand that, as anxious as may have been ahead of tonight, she has been living in hell. Your flat is in a village nearly half an hour away; safe enough for tonight, but tomorrow you’ll have to take her further. You have never met Victor Crane, but you’ve heard enough from Carla to know that you never want to.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A deer appears in the middle of the road, and you barely have time to slam the brakes on. The car stops a couple of feet away, abruptly enough to wake Carla from her doze in the passenger seat. You watch her watching the doe, as it dashes out of the car’s beams, keeping her gaze on the spot where it had been even after it has vanished into the darkness of the surrounding trees. Your hand finds hers, and she grips it as if holding on for dear life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You pass no cars on the entire journey, and reach the village at exactly 00:45. Carla gets out of the car and walks barefoot to your front door, high heels dangling from the one hand as she uses the other to keep the oversized denim jacket from sliding down her shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You close the door, shutting out the cold night. How many other times have you brought her here? It’s become your sanctuary, the one place that her husband<i> </i>doesn’t know about. She lingers in the hallway, and you can tell she is thinking the same thing. That this may be the last time you both get to enjoy this secret place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“We did it,” you say, kissing her neck. “We did it.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She begins to laugh, as if finally letting herself believe that their night journey has really happened. You can’t help yourself from laughing too; it is impossible to picture yourself waiting in your car less than an hour ago. You pick her up, carry her into the bedroom and throw her on the bed. She squeals in delight, pulling the denim jacket from around her shoulders and throwing it at you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You lean over her and yank her dress so hard it rips. Her eyes widen at the sound, and a playful grin transforms her face. You tug even harder on the dress and the seams at the back come completely apart. She tears at the fabric, desperate to be free of it, until she is entirely naked and under you. You haul your shirt over your shoulders while she unzips your jeans. Now that the two of you finally have all the time in the world, neither of you can wait. Your lovemaking is rushed, almost panicked, the fear of being found out still hanging over both of you even as the adrenaline of what you have just done courses through your veins.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Where will we go?” She asks, afterwards.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I don’t know yet. Maybe we could hop on a ferry and have a little holiday.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I’m serious,” she says, sitting up. “Once Victor knows I’m gone, he’ll stop at nothing until he finds me. You don’t know what he’s capable of. He…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Nothing. It’s just that, for years, he had this power over me. And I could never fight it. Not until I met you. And even though I’m free now, I can’t shake this feeling.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What feeling?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Carla hesitates, as if deciding whether or not to tell you the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“That wherever I go, he’ll know where I am.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Then we’ll go far away. We’ll change our names and learn Spanish. I’ll grow a beard and you can shave your head. We’ll be unrecognisable.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Carla smiles, although it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You decide that it’s okay; you have the rest of your life to make her smile properly. You switch off the bedside lamp, and then you do what you’ve wanted to do for months. You lay your head on her stomach and close your eyes, knowing that she will still be there come morning.</span> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 8.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Extract from a work in progress.</i></span></div><br />
</div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-12251233027094185172012-02-09T16:09:00.000+00:002012-02-09T16:09:41.131+00:00The Ideal Lestat, And Other Occurrences<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrRwRkCzX8Dp4EuoHmMgKNrplnCfUi4b-LKcKACPSqmi0dZ1kWkbbGwyMeoQqgPXTwr7wMRWgcnqrR-XSJNa789q1N8xQUvaP_tP9OGB06fulBXYZaz5VKWQh1og0qq_UchXinM7gzuOF/s1600/the-tale-of-the-body-thief.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrRwRkCzX8Dp4EuoHmMgKNrplnCfUi4b-LKcKACPSqmi0dZ1kWkbbGwyMeoQqgPXTwr7wMRWgcnqrR-XSJNa789q1N8xQUvaP_tP9OGB06fulBXYZaz5VKWQh1og0qq_UchXinM7gzuOF/s320/the-tale-of-the-body-thief.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">To my delight this week, <a href="http://www.sfx.co.uk/2012/02/08/is-the-vampire-lestat-due-for-another-big-screen-appearance/">SFX.co.uk</a> reported that Anne Rice's<i> The Tale Of The Body Thief</i> has been optioned for a film by Ron Howard. <i>Body Thief</i> is, after <i>The Queen Of The Damned</i>, my favourite Lestat novel, and it got me thinking: who would best play the brat prince a third time around? Tom Cruise embodied the role incredibly in 1994's <i>Interview With The Vampire</i>, while Stuart Townsend fared less well in the dodgy <i>Queen Of The Damned</i> adaptation. Below are a couple of suggestions for the film's producers, off the top of my head, along with more news from the web this week.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiHNSDXdBMcWQJDjg60NOPin9nNPnH8qX6feqU7cMTl7iAaAotLzjhFPJenVujPsm8AFReQvzDr-FeWZIAHJQ2ofMvhPmkczXTz_22PmXM-JMkwOGo4U-0w5awhx0wrRkyCKRcAELyHBys/s1600/tom+hiddleston.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiHNSDXdBMcWQJDjg60NOPin9nNPnH8qX6feqU7cMTl7iAaAotLzjhFPJenVujPsm8AFReQvzDr-FeWZIAHJQ2ofMvhPmkczXTz_22PmXM-JMkwOGo4U-0w5awhx0wrRkyCKRcAELyHBys/s200/tom+hiddleston.jpg" width="136" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Tom Hiddleston</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(Thor, War Horse, The Avengers)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He pretty much nailed "villainous" in <i>Thor</i>. Plus, cheekbones.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2o4hdz-ElB9Av5AHsL5MzujGvzpnyKgmKo-rjs1SyC_L5fYPbKVAZ8i5XVFiWFMtMwKFvJ5IgvdSAvkw2pJXtrrV_rTJ5mWK_Ry7ajFmTAxURh8LPIhWXn8EBSxM7sGABNMqvpRilw06/s1600/FASSBENDER_TRANCE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2o4hdz-ElB9Av5AHsL5MzujGvzpnyKgmKo-rjs1SyC_L5fYPbKVAZ8i5XVFiWFMtMwKFvJ5IgvdSAvkw2pJXtrrV_rTJ5mWK_Ry7ajFmTAxURh8LPIhWXn8EBSxM7sGABNMqvpRilw06/s200/FASSBENDER_TRANCE.jpg" width="149" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Michael Fassbender</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(Fish Tank, Inglourious Basterds, Shame)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Anyone who saw him as fallen angel Azazeal in <i>Hex </i>(a fairly early role) will know he can pull off seductive immortal rather well.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8dNOgpLbSpFGf6spO-Ib_KeCVwm_8lIrbFDcLFn0vjul3jT6sNjW186Zqs5yWB388c_pm2Ar_zeJD5rfckpqpAk7sxZ7R9TdWdnH93A1hVxhjw6yxgX2bWg1PvhCyVHaRjR-x1tVqV7t/s1600/robert+sheehan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8dNOgpLbSpFGf6spO-Ib_KeCVwm_8lIrbFDcLFn0vjul3jT6sNjW186Zqs5yWB388c_pm2Ar_zeJD5rfckpqpAk7sxZ7R9TdWdnH93A1hVxhjw6yxgX2bWg1PvhCyVHaRjR-x1tVqV7t/s200/robert+sheehan.jpg" width="133" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Robert Sheehan</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(Misfits, Killing Bono, Season of the Witch)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Stay with me, here. Lestat is a spoiled, selfish braggard, is practically indestructible and lives without consequences. Tell me that doesn't remind you of a certain Misfit...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIu-MmU0rkQBcLb_sMro4P9NiqkqcKBjd4KmJ2jUuhan4mfcXHkk4PVz_nH8Lp3pPNGnPSCM1jKNUMZ1-69b9y64xLKFKl8HIxeTyQCyV3xh-8Mv03FelV5FUcKB1GGFvVrUiJBr9WB_LM/s1600/ezra+miller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIu-MmU0rkQBcLb_sMro4P9NiqkqcKBjd4KmJ2jUuhan4mfcXHkk4PVz_nH8Lp3pPNGnPSCM1jKNUMZ1-69b9y64xLKFKl8HIxeTyQCyV3xh-8Mv03FelV5FUcKB1GGFvVrUiJBr9WB_LM/s200/ezra+miller.jpg" width="133" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Ezra Miller</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(Californication, The Perks Of Being A Wallflower)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Youthful and incredibly exotic-looking, Miller proved he can go to some pretty dark places in <i>We Need To Talk About Kevin</i>.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSR2svmGZpbDsy4KRHR1LW48lVNMDFty-wNPhZiMgzZG9Z26HePu_KHM8qVT9OlzWqXlKZFvTkmllrNUaLDJIkFMtNinBnklVePWx676sTlgn8Y4L6l95QTz50QUKd4DwExAN7AqNRRCME/s1600/vincent-cassel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSR2svmGZpbDsy4KRHR1LW48lVNMDFty-wNPhZiMgzZG9Z26HePu_KHM8qVT9OlzWqXlKZFvTkmllrNUaLDJIkFMtNinBnklVePWx676sTlgn8Y4L6l95QTz50QUKd4DwExAN7AqNRRCME/s200/vincent-cassel.jpg" width="143" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Vincent Cassel</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(La Haine, Irreversible, Brotherhood of the Wolf, Mesrine)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Alright, so he is perhaps a little old to be playing Lestat, but put him in the right light and Cassel would effortlessly exude the decadent Frenchness that saturates the iconic character.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<ul><li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In other book-to-film related news, </span><a href="http://geeks.thedailywh.at/2012/02/08/hobbit-casting-news-of-the-day-4/" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Billy Connolly has joined the cast of The Hobbit</a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Valentine's Day approaches, and in anticipation Flavorwire have compiled a list of </span><a href="http://flavorwire.com/258248/books-you-definitely-shouldnt-give-to-your-valentine" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">books to never, ever give your sweetheart</a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Granta have revealed the latest entry in their online New Voices series, dedicated to emerging talent: <a href="http://www.granta.com/New-Writing/New-Voice-Runs-Girl"><i>Runs Girl</i> by Chinelo Okparanta</a>.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Are you a writer? Are you in love with Ryan Gosling? Somebody out there must have guessed there's a pretty big overlap in those two demographics, and came up with the genius Twitter account <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/GoslingLitAgent">@GoslingLitAgent</a>.</span></li>
</ul></div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-72652768271579502502012-02-02T22:54:00.000+00:002012-02-02T22:54:35.277+00:00Saint Pris<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rick Hartman took one final puff on his electric cigarette before pocketing it as a skinny girl in a headset ushered him into the hotel room. He reached instinctively for a stick of gum, remembered that was no longer necessary, then decided to have one anyway – it would calm his nerves. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Don’t fuck this up,” his editor had cheerily told him this morning. “Did you know how hard it was to get a whole half hour with Saint Pris?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Not that hard, it would appear, otherwise they’d be sending golden boy David Everett instead of Rick, who had gained the unfortunate reputation around the office of being more than a little washed up. Still, interviewing the hottest musical act of the New Year might just be enough to get him back in everyone’s good books.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rick allowed himself to be led into the centre of the lounge of the hotel suite, where two winged armchairs had been positioned to face each other. Rick took a seat in the armchair on the left, and waited. After a couple of minutes, when the gum had lost all flavour, his nerves returned. Saint Pris may have only been on the public’s radar for five minutes, but it still felt like he was anticipating an audience with royalty.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Almost quarter of an hour into his allotted time, Saint Pris finally appeared, surrounded by a small mob of makeup artists and bodyguards. She waved the entourage away as she sat down, and they vanished into an adjoining room. She looked smaller, frailer, than her photos suggested. Her pale, angular face was almost entirely masked by a massive pair of mirrored sunglasses that gave Rick the impression of looking at an insect. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Every pop star had to invent a persona these days. Saint Pris took hers more seriously than most, though. She claimed to be an extra-terrestrial princess from a distant world, and had yet to be spotted out of character. Rick found it mildly offensive that the girl’s management hadn’t bothered to put the slightest effort into their science fiction research when brainstorming a name; everybody knew Pris was the femme fatale from <i>Blade Runner</i>. A cyborg, incidentally – <i>not</i> an alien.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Good afternoon,” Rick said, pressing the record button on his antiquated Dictaphone. “Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You are welcome,” replied the girl behind the sunglasses, “it is lovely to meet you.” Her voice, expressionless as it was, could almost be that of a robot. <i>Pris by name,</i> Rick thought, <i>Pris by nature.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“This is shaping up to be your year,” Rick continued. “A number one single, the cover of Rolling Stone, and you’re set to support Madonna on her next tour…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Cher,” Saint Pris corrected him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Of course. Cher. Anyway; very little is known about Saint Pris outside of press releases and music videos. What can you tell me about your background?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Saint Pris is an Archalian.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I see,” Rick smiled, humouring her. “But what about the woman behind Saint Pris? When did you first fall in love with music, for example? Where was your first gig?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Saint Pris comes from the 9<sup>th</sup> dimension,” she intoned. Another affectation, it seemed, on top of the glasses, was referring to herself in the third person.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“The 9<sup>th</sup> dimension?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Where stars freeze and water burns.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Saint Pris, though, it’s a moniker – an alias.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Correct. Saint Pris is a chosen name.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“So…?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Saint Pris did not respond, and Rick realised he was going to have to spell out the question.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What is your real name?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Saint Pris is an Archalian. To utter the true name of an Archalian in this world is to tear down the very walls of reality itself.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rick leant in conspiratorially.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Come on,” he implored. “Just between us. What’s your real name?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You must desist, immediately. Or you will face an unimaginable fate.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rick snorted. You could say what you liked about Saint Pris (and the bloggers certainly did), but he’d be damned if she weren’t committed to her art.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Okay, okay,” he laughed, holding up his hands as if in surrender. But he had no desire to surrender. None at all. <i>Nothing stays hidden, </i>he thought. <i>Even a bloody so-called Archalian has to have a birth certificate.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Saint Pris tensed, as if she had overheard his internal monologue somehow, telepathically stumbling across his intention to uncover her true identity.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“To speak the true name aloud is to condemn the entire cosmos,” she breathed. “This cannot be permitted.” And then, without another word, she removed her sunglasses.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The stare of Saint Pris was unlike anything Rick had ever experienced. At first he thought that his life was flashing before his eyes, but he knew that couldn’t be it, as the images being transmitted into his mind directly from Saint Pris’s eyes were much grander and far-reaching; wars, tsunamis, the moon landing, the hanging gardens of Babylon… The life of the <i>world</i> was flashing before his eyes. And Rick knew that he was done for.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The floor beneath them began to tremble, and a sinking sensation began to seep into Rick’s feet. He looked down, and the carpet itself had started to dissolve, pulling Rick down like quicksand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What’s happening?” He yelped, gripping the arms of his chair. “Help!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Saint Pris simply looked at him with her saucer-like eyes, and shook her head.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Please!” Rick begged, his knees vanishing into the quagmire. As the armchair started to subside with him, he let out a terrified scream: “Save me!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Give my regards to the 9<sup>th</sup> dimension,” Saint Pris whispered into the void, referring to herself for once in the first person. “And good luck, Mr Hartman. Good luck.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But there was no reply from Rick Hartman. The vortex swallowed him and the armchair whole, and seconds later there was no trace of him left in the hotel suite except for a battered Dictaphone on the carpet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Saint Pris sighed, put her sunglasses back on, and carefully retrieved the tape recorder from the floor. She pressed rewind, and listened to the brief interview all the way through, from its delayed beginning to its abrupt end.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Is that what I really sound like?” She pondered aloud, replaying it again, and again. Finally, she removed the tape from the Dictaphone and crushed it beneath her right high heel. There would be no more interviews today.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>This little piece of nonsense was inspired by (and is therefore dedicated to) </i></span></span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">David Bowie, Lady Gaga and Lana Del Rey, among others.</i></div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-68847000402208614522012-01-29T13:51:00.000+00:002012-01-29T13:51:28.893+00:00Review: The Map Of Time by Felix J. Palma<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLAhVFH4Tq8JooKHvIX1LjSEA4phXNYcsOOfzHxGO_KJTXjBqGOi2cDZGIzud4WyQ1tXJz5wcdSv_67lKUTPy49NqZnVXsWr6iJaFD4zBaoqfA6O3h_uFRHUBBivr516uQIBDHqx4Lmfr/s1600/The+Map+of+Time+UK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLAhVFH4Tq8JooKHvIX1LjSEA4phXNYcsOOfzHxGO_KJTXjBqGOi2cDZGIzud4WyQ1tXJz5wcdSv_67lKUTPy49NqZnVXsWr6iJaFD4zBaoqfA6O3h_uFRHUBBivr516uQIBDHqx4Lmfr/s320/The+Map+of+Time+UK.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br />
While reading Felix J. Palma's <i>The Map Of Time</i>, it is incredibly easy to see what the author was trying to do; write a novel that celebrated and encapsulated the literary oeuvre of Victorian England. Whether or not <i>The Map Of Time</i> is that novel depends on the reader's appreciation of a narrative that is capable of shifting from one genre to the next within a couple of pages.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>There is much to admire here: the self-aware, all-knowing (and rather playful) narrator is a constant source of amusement, and the sheer frequency with which well-known figures pop up is impressive. Jack the Ripper, the Elephant Man, Henry James and Bram Stoker all play minor roles, while H.G. Wells himself can be viewed as something of a central character around whom all of the various subplots revolve.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The plot itself is pure metafiction. Following the success of H.G. Wells' novel <i>The Time Machine</i>, time travel is the most popular topic of conversation across the salons of London. Palma uses this backdrop to deliver entertaining, mindbending discussions on paradoxes and alternate universes, with the novel itself forming something of a love letter to the birth of science fiction. Among the memorable characters who find themselves connected to the father of the genre, Wells himself, are Andrew Harrington, who wishes to turn back the clock and save his lover from Jack the Ripper, Claire Haggerty, a proto-feminist who yearns for freedom in the distant future, and Tom Blunt, a thug and charlatan embroiled in the grandest con ever attempted.</div><div><br />
</div><div>At times, the prose verges on workmanlike and events can get a tad repetitive (try counting how many visits are made to H.G. Wells' home in Surrey by various characters), but on the whole, <i>The Map Of Time </i>is to be savoured and applauded for its ambition, scope, and willingness to pull double bluff after double bluff on the reader.</div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-591166834970683312012-01-28T14:22:00.000+00:002012-01-28T14:22:36.943+00:00The Creepiest Title For A Romance Novel EVER (And Other Happenings)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My best friend Chloe and I have a weekly tradition. We visit my mum's cafe in Wellington, Shropshire, for free coffee, and then go for a leisurely stroll around the market, usually spending about an hour in the labyrinthine bookstall. It is a more dangerous pastime than you might expect, as the paperbacks are stacked so high that one wrong move could bury you. This weekend we updated our tradition to include bookstall bingo, a game in which participants must find the most inappropriately amusing book title. Chloe was the winner on this occasion, spotting a novel by the name of <i>Fanny By Gaslight</i>. However, I stumbled across a book that deserves an award all of its own: that of Creepiest Title For A Romance Novel.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ZWmnL8Fn9dfQKOa3cTzSbe3O6YwcAFFMdQhH0JtvXlVu_6jzODoSoAAMuEkBkbWcNrp2-K8cAl2uS_kyfjHB2xg59klyYFIKbdCh25jBL-YtJU9_kI_oROgYu6C1j_mibwtGbBgZO8Ls/s1600/AkPuaGiCIAAZ2dm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ZWmnL8Fn9dfQKOa3cTzSbe3O6YwcAFFMdQhH0JtvXlVu_6jzODoSoAAMuEkBkbWcNrp2-K8cAl2uS_kyfjHB2xg59klyYFIKbdCh25jBL-YtJU9_kI_oROgYu6C1j_mibwtGbBgZO8Ls/s320/AkPuaGiCIAAZ2dm.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Disturbing, <i>non?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Other events of note this week/end:<br />
<div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">Lana Del Rey finally released her debut album <i>Born To Die</i>, meaning the world is now able to base its opinion of her on more than two songs, a lousy Saturday Night Live appearance and gallons of Internet vitriol.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I got to wondering what <i>Doctor Who</i> companion Amy Pond might have to say about her unconventional family unit if she ever made an appearance on daytime television. The result of this pondering is an article that can be found at Huffington Post UK: <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/philip-ellis/5-tv-families-who-need-je_b_1229367.html">"5 TV Families Who Need Jeremy Kyle"</a>.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Yet another celebrity fell victim to the now-infamous Twitter "death hoax" this week. "RIP Cher" trended worldwide on Friday 27th January, despite it being a widely known fact that Cher has a portrait in her attic that prevents her from dying.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">And finally, via Funny Or Die, <a href="http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/e82c207451/sabrina-salem-together-again">a glimpse at what a <i>Sabrina The Teenage Witch </i>reunion might look like...</a></li>
</ul></div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-18777375467392776322012-01-23T19:12:00.000+00:002012-01-23T19:12:33.505+00:00Guess Who's Coming To Dinner<div style="text-align: left;">Back in the good old days when I had a full-time job and salary (i.e. a month ago), I would indulge in a little harmless daydreaming and procrastination. Now that I am self-employed, motivation and go-getter-ness are vital. But I still find myself trawling Twitter, Facebook and my own imagination for distractions from work. The latest subject to divert my attention is thus: who would I invite to my perfect dinner party? I gave no consideration to realism in this endeavour, other than how many people I can physically fit around my table.</div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9js6E4ofd2kLjxAh7KF0kjhwyQO0nTvSTgEFhyphenhyphenbOTKG-Kpf7rvMihXf8VP_vQtr5X0OvDT0HgjdlCx4lGOapY51DT6EwoSpIL5T2QNQMIbnDUOdO2FnMzOFB0me7PoRWjoHaDlQwyx1b/s1600/palomafaith_credit_alicehaw-431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9js6E4ofd2kLjxAh7KF0kjhwyQO0nTvSTgEFhyphenhyphenbOTKG-Kpf7rvMihXf8VP_vQtr5X0OvDT0HgjdlCx4lGOapY51DT6EwoSpIL5T2QNQMIbnDUOdO2FnMzOFB0me7PoRWjoHaDlQwyx1b/s320/palomafaith_credit_alicehaw-431.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Paloma Faith</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">It goes without saying that this singer/actress would arrive wearing something outlandish and eye-catching. I read in an interview somewhere that she is a huge fan of Milan Kundera, so I imagine she could explain to me what his books are actually about, and maybe even treat us to a rendition of "Upside Down" before the night is over.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU2wNoeei37nz7g8KheeZwFRG5ZMU7VYG-rW8NQpw5jHJWQXIEgcRcmum5rP6IRpUOBblcdryzUdZ-pPpJa9_00tnSy9y9VQMTSLP6Aceo0HM4610MGhqOso71yO100MYxQD6E4uSv7X6_/s1600/Matt-Smith-as-Doctor-Who-matt-smith-11944054-590-445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU2wNoeei37nz7g8KheeZwFRG5ZMU7VYG-rW8NQpw5jHJWQXIEgcRcmum5rP6IRpUOBblcdryzUdZ-pPpJa9_00tnSy9y9VQMTSLP6Aceo0HM4610MGhqOso71yO100MYxQD6E4uSv7X6_/s320/Matt-Smith-as-Doctor-Who-matt-smith-11944054-590-445.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Matt Smith (As the Eleventh Doctor)</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;">I know he's fictional. But is Paloma Faith showing up for dinner any more realistic, really? The Doctor would make an ideal dinner guest; he could regale us with tales of exploding suns, hostile aliens and other wacky adventures. Also, he has a time machine, so there is no excuse for turning up late.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FB5ZgtNS9QNAJdix0NybXYFH7tITdzoe6nmtvlOh0LD2xE-q3aITFdiIb06tfwuQA0BsbgVbBVuyZzgmw68V6JB1PbOGNilkW7x0cXWhN8XNprIPYW8K8VpgNRYeU-P-f4jt9u5oGoHw/s1600/capote_Truman_wine_1955_565x324.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FB5ZgtNS9QNAJdix0NybXYFH7tITdzoe6nmtvlOh0LD2xE-q3aITFdiIb06tfwuQA0BsbgVbBVuyZzgmw68V6JB1PbOGNilkW7x0cXWhN8XNprIPYW8K8VpgNRYeU-P-f4jt9u5oGoHw/s320/capote_Truman_wine_1955_565x324.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Truman Capote</span></div><div><br />
</div><div>Alrighty then, if I can invite a fictional character to dinner, then who's to say I can't bring back the dead? Capote would have a withering one-liner prepared for any topic of conversation, and undoubtedly would have a thing or two to say about his fellow guests... Behind their backs, of course.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdBhQesodS0lt9_cIyx5FrsKP79vCPU_HBX9KIZjJqRsiTbzMPH4iNT9bpqZtfPbA_CrVNS76osRSkZEMxR9u3cgfApuJrxyxiBBW1iK-AWcqriPB4G-yaJxTo6i4HvR7HGHOZbTghG9B/s1600/shappi-khorsandi0_1693799c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdBhQesodS0lt9_cIyx5FrsKP79vCPU_HBX9KIZjJqRsiTbzMPH4iNT9bpqZtfPbA_CrVNS76osRSkZEMxR9u3cgfApuJrxyxiBBW1iK-AWcqriPB4G-yaJxTo6i4HvR7HGHOZbTghG9B/s320/shappi-khorsandi0_1693799c.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Shappi Khorsandi</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Who doesn't love to be told a joke or two over dinner? Shappi Khorsandi has a winning smile and is downright hilarious, which would nicely fill those uncomfortable gaps between courses.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_x4aOUOGE3P2vz0cl8XtgLKLA8RRcCsstVTigBexe2xTk8PiIf3sKjLWI1kgIJZvp3TWIiny7SKN_XIwbGuCQ-YhJFP7NCs6X5AfhxNNrkGl8J-VaRAA1Ds1Yiyr57w1EJttvZZHVupg/s1600/id87605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_x4aOUOGE3P2vz0cl8XtgLKLA8RRcCsstVTigBexe2xTk8PiIf3sKjLWI1kgIJZvp3TWIiny7SKN_XIwbGuCQ-YhJFP7NCs6X5AfhxNNrkGl8J-VaRAA1Ds1Yiyr57w1EJttvZZHVupg/s320/id87605.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Robert Sheehan</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;">His boyish charisma and cheeky Irish brogue (not to mention his foul mouth) evoked a young Cillian Murphy and won over legions of fans in sci-fi hit <i>Misfits</i>. I reckon he'd have us in stitches over dessert, reciting some reliably filthy limericks.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: left;">So there we have it; my five imaginary dinner guests. Who would you choose? Let me know in the comments.</div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-56247839221681202652012-01-22T14:29:00.002+00:002012-01-22T15:09:22.517+00:00I Love You, Internet!<div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" mozallowfullscreen="" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/33976373?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="400"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://vimeo.com/33976373">The Scream</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user9716380">Sebastian Cosor</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Have you ever seen a photograph or a painting, and wondered what was happening just outside of the frame? Sebastian Cosor certainly has. This week I stumbled upon his interpretation of Edvard Munch's <i>The Scream</i>, a peculiar and wonderful three minute marriage of expressionism, animation and Pink Floyd. You'll find the short film above, and a round-up of this week's entertaining and inspirational scraps from the world wide web can be found <a href="http://philipthewriter.blogspot.com/2012/01/i-love-you-internet.html">after the jump</a>. </div><a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAFspM9pvi44NjuyU-uh1yFuRUCATrSVppnZP1fYQMVLgTU7Jq7tbQ38UYsCm2rVPHHi4EzsKAcDhw_WAXO43mvm2qkBeM7_87SFw7nmdLEnXuY8cmXmQpU5u0f84dOqrX1357W6sG2Qe/s1600/lana_del_rey-born-to-die_jpg_630x360_q85.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAFspM9pvi44NjuyU-uh1yFuRUCATrSVppnZP1fYQMVLgTU7Jq7tbQ38UYsCm2rVPHHi4EzsKAcDhw_WAXO43mvm2qkBeM7_87SFw7nmdLEnXuY8cmXmQpU5u0f84dOqrX1357W6sG2Qe/s320/lana_del_rey-born-to-die_jpg_630x360_q85.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">Lana Del Rey has been at the centre of a critical whirlwind just lately. Some applaud her sultry sound, while others dismiss her as another manufactured pop princess, albeit one with slightly indie sensibilities. I personally can't help but wonder what all the fuss is about - the music industry is hardly known for turning out paragons of creative integrity, and I'd take the artist formerly known as Lizzy Grant over Lady Gaga, who has co-opted all of homosexuality and counter culture for herself, any day. This weekend, The Guardian looked at both sides of <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2012/jan/21/lana-del-rey-pop?fb_action_ids=10151180263575133%2C865999639857&fb_action_types=news.reads&fb_source=other_multiline">the Lana Del Rey controversy</a>.</li>
</ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Q7YOJO41NyIxb2Cm2FATjd4qXyTJZtx8Xb_qSJeCPIYCwxZWXDZpd1tZpHofve6ZLnEmh6TUtDxi2jf78qCri64SeHhrwQnZZ863fQdcpt7YzBhsMr5UJp8WdJ1ogb85F-9Pqn5Mk5Pt/s1600/cover.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Q7YOJO41NyIxb2Cm2FATjd4qXyTJZtx8Xb_qSJeCPIYCwxZWXDZpd1tZpHofve6ZLnEmh6TUtDxi2jf78qCri64SeHhrwQnZZ863fQdcpt7YzBhsMr5UJp8WdJ1ogb85F-9Pqn5Mk5Pt/s200/cover.gif" width="128" /></a></div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">I'm a big fan of visual storytelling, mainly because as a writer I am hugely jealous of people who can draw. I can put together a dashing stick man (and the incredibly fun <a href="http://drawastickman.com/">DrawAStickMan.com</a> is always worth a visit), but that's about it. I was particularly delighted to find this short webcomic, entitled <a href="http://verabee.com/wolf/">"What Were You Raised By Wolves?"</a></li>
</ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxVwEENmSvy-61jyDSwiVsnUBjOudhgC0YSHGidaIW7wOJDSznUY5czElC2HNXzT5jL63f9u6yumm-U_laDdbij5rq_pv4yw61LveWspqn1oZeu7KLpJpsmz9g6mMbmZSESQfmSZ2aiRI/s1600/2719-8162.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxVwEENmSvy-61jyDSwiVsnUBjOudhgC0YSHGidaIW7wOJDSznUY5czElC2HNXzT5jL63f9u6yumm-U_laDdbij5rq_pv4yw61LveWspqn1oZeu7KLpJpsmz9g6mMbmZSESQfmSZ2aiRI/s200/2719-8162.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">Christopher Rice, one of my favourite novelists (and crush, if I'm honest) discussed the ins and outs of being a "gay author" with Eric Shaw Quinn over at <a href="http://t.co/C8VOlGFC">The Huffington Post</a>.</li>
</ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmuIfDQM3KdQ7H21KMc-_BQZSemoUPQMUgldsWIum-G9xU944obQImjfOMU4amsVsN2TpwHg-MGuC_cBJt2vz6GKPZC0IRUJmswX_c8uuzVvTq8b7GleK52qppLS9T0CHQaCAzCkYhMxr-/s1600/8dc52fd4-475a-4bb9-a415-d5bd5302eb21_display.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmuIfDQM3KdQ7H21KMc-_BQZSemoUPQMUgldsWIum-G9xU944obQImjfOMU4amsVsN2TpwHg-MGuC_cBJt2vz6GKPZC0IRUJmswX_c8uuzVvTq8b7GleK52qppLS9T0CHQaCAzCkYhMxr-/s200/8dc52fd4-475a-4bb9-a415-d5bd5302eb21_display.jpg" width="149" /></a></div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">And to finish, a personal victory. A rather jaunty striped jumper with elbow patches got me featured on the homepage of "What I Wore Today", a British style blog. <a href="http://www.wiwt.com/">WIWT.com</a> is the brainchild of fashion blogger Poppy Dinsey - follow her on Twitter <a href="http://www.twitter.com/poppyd">here</a>. Happy Sunday, everyone!</li>
<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2012/jan/21/lana-del-rey-pop?fb_action_ids=10151180263575133%2C865999639857&fb_action_types=news.reads&fb_source=other_multiline"> </a></ul></div>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780376391149589856.post-42099756904661113412012-01-18T13:24:00.000+00:002012-01-18T13:24:04.289+00:00RegenerationYes, yes, I know. I've left it a little late in the month to be writing a post about fresh starts. But I've been very busy. Honest.<br />
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Just before Christmas, I a rather drastic (some might say silly) thing. I quit my job. I'd reached a point where my part time copywriting work was beginning to look a lot more promising than my day job. So I took the plunge, and as of the New Year, became self-employed. Along with a tonne of CV writing, I started a rather exciting little venture with my good friend Libby. You can check out us and our work at <a href="http://www.shropshirecopywriters.com/">ShropshireCopywriters.com</a>.<br />
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The novelty of being my own boss hasn't quite worn off yet. I still get up and go to work in the morning, but everything is on my terms. Life hasn't changed drastically, yet it has. I'm the same, just a little bit new and improved. Much in the same way that Matt Smith is technically the same Doctor as David Tennant, only far, far superior. <i>(I am well aware this is nerd baiting. Sorry.) </i>So what better time than (mid-to-late) January to give my blog a fresh lick of paint, and reintroduce myself?<br />
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On this site you'll find my scribblings from the last couple of years. Lots of flash fiction, book reviews, and a smattering of poetry. Last year I completed the first volume of <a href="http://vampirelovesongs.blogspot.com/">Vampire Love Songs</a>, a booze-and-blood-soaked webserial. One of my New Year's resolutions is to write the second volume in 2012.<br />
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I also blog occasionally for the Huffington Post on books and entertainment - another of my resolutions is to make this a more regular occurrence. My work for HuffPost can be found <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/philip-ellis">here</a>.<br />
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So, that's me. Same old Phil, but re-energised and raring to go. Regenerated, you could say.<br />
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</i>Philip Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377523586064545182noreply@blogger.com3