The Machines of Promise

The buzz inside always excited her; on every visit she took a moment to linger in the doorway and drink in the atmosphere, the expectation, the thrill. She loved the glitzy flashing lights, the bustle of laughter, the jangling, clink and clatter of coins, that was real hard, metal money; money you could feel, had some weight. Cash that held out the promise of a better future or at least some respite from the misery outside and her humdrum life.

She had her own machine, her own lucky machine, the one on which she had scored her first big win. This was off to the side and away from where the hoodies and school kids loitered. Under the plastic flashing lights she played the arcade slot machines with an intense concentration. Coin after coin clattered and buzzed, cartoon fruits, bells and notes spun and so many times she almost won. The occasional little win kept her going and excited. That twenty or thirty quid, just what was needed in the chase after the big one. The excitement was obsessive and it was one of her few joys; the joy where she lost all track of time and petty responsibilities.

Impregnable Constellation

Small
shapes
collide.
Intricate,
In the mists of time.
An alarming place to avoid.

Dissatisfied

Caught,
silent,
lonely.
She screams out:
"Intrigue me."
He, without reply, leaves annoyed.

The Café

We sat in the supermarket café at a table that really could have done with a wipe. We watched as our mothers had joined the queue and chatted and assumed they were talking about us. We had sat and waited, all embarrassed, while we usually had so much to say to each other. They arrived back with what the menu valiantly described as buffalo mozzarella, vine ripened tomato and pesto on a toasted ciabatta and we all ended up with an additional mixed salad – which I really did not want and never would have asked for. There were lukewarm cappuccinos to drink as we were supposed to be grown ups now.

They fussed and we all started to eat. The mozzarella now cold but dribbling a greasy oil over our hands and arms. With the napkins too thin to mop up the humiliation. Somehow I felt my hands would never be clean again, there would always be this greasy lingering shame.

Our two mothers had gotten together and taken us teenagers out, a special treat mine had claimed; for you and your new boyfriend. All afternoon we had to suffer the indignity as they watched our every move, and now our every mouthful. They monitored every salad leaf dangling from our lips, every drip of coffee, every awkward glance.

Talk was of all the usual inane chatter: weather, work, the state of the economy, Aunt Clara's leg. It all drifted over us and we fell into an embarrassed silence. The grown ups seemed not to notice the silence and prattled on. Mothers: how easily they make first love mundane.

Contrary

“Now?”
“No.”
“When then?”
“Never with you.”
“But you suggested...”
"I've changed my mind... maybe forever."

Punk Vision

She was not the kind of girl he usually found desirable; the unshaven legs, the unfamiliarity with the shower, the chain smoking, the brazen punk buzz of her iPod, above all the smoke that hung on her every breath and impregnated her garish clothes.

He didn't know what she had, he just knew he liked it, liked it a lot. Above all he wanted to explore what ticked inside her head; underneath that cropped black and green hair and decorative piercings. She must be such an unusual and fascinating person.

Every day he tried to see her; he knew roughly when she left her flat opposite for work and roughly when she'd be back. He would look out from his top floor flat on the long straight road of Victorian houses all broken up into bedsits. A typical student area even if he, and he expected she, were not students. He hated it when she arrived back, often laughing, sometimes sullen, with friends – especially if they were male. And longed to know where she'd been when she alone strode to her doorway.

Escaping

It was British racing green, or so I told myself, but really it was a disappointment. First glanced at everything seemed superficially correct: the five speed gears, the drop handlebars, the uncomfortable racing saddle. But the other kids knew: it was not the branded model, nothing to boast about, it was a discount bike.

During the summer rain it rusted outside. The thin paintwork became scratched and dented. We played out on the fields at the back of the estate; no time or land for cycling. The bike was only retrieved late afternoon for my paper round.

I told my friend, from two doors down, that the bike had been hit by flying bullets while escaping the police. The rusty scratches were proof, absolute proof. I still don't know if he believed me.

A Family Excursion

“Just say what you want.”

My husband was concentrating on fitting a life jacket on our daughter and did not hear me remain resolutely silent.

“We'll do what you want,” he uttered, fiddling with buckles, “you just have to say. How's that,” his half baked inattention evaporated he concentrated totally on our daughter, “tight enough? See how that is.” He tugged at the life jacket and our seven year old daughter ran off to join her two older brothers waiting in the boat.

Finally he looked in my direction; I could feel the condemnation: “Tell me what you want. I've never been able to read your mind.”

I turn as if walking back up the slipway to the car but only manage a few steps. Looking at the ground the desired words become jumbled and inarticulate, they stick in my chest with a harsh stabbing pain.

We Lived

I glimpse. She nonchalant. I watch. She tantalises. I grin. She entranced. She spoke. I mumbled. She flirted. We parted. I wished. I longed.

We meet. I desire. We walk. She fascinates. We sit. She intrigues. We talk. She enraptures. We embraced. She captivates. I love. She loves. We kissed. We loved.

We talked. We hugged. We drank. We danced. We laugh. We drank. She sips. I drink. I drink. I insult. She cried. We reconciled. She admonishes. We kissed. I love. I loved. I love.

I dreamt. We touched. We snuggled. We laughed. She smiled. We hugged. We undressed. We kissed. We played. We romped. We lingered. We revelled. We entwined. She mounted. We moaned. She thrust. I came. She slept.

I awoke. I smoked. She arose. She smiles. She bathed. She cooked. I ate. Parents disapprove. Friends warned. Friends disapproved. We holiday. We relax. We explore. We sleep. Friends scatter.

We marry. She waitresses. She studies. I sweat. I earn. She conceives. We celebrate. We move. I work. She decorates. She miscarries. I blame. She sulks. I blame. We argue. I threaten.

She disappoints. She flirted. She lusted. She sinned. I accuse. She denied. She wept. I swear. I shouted. I explode. I hit. I hit. I hit. She screamed. I apologised.

I promised. I remembered. I joked. I plotted. I belittled. I demanded. She betrayed. She disobeyed. I raged. I beat. I beat. She fell. I wounded. I hospitalised. I apologise.

She left. I followed. I confront. I pleaded. I assured. I implore. She relents. She returns.

We loved. I promised. I schemed. I compelled. She disappoints. I struck. I smash. I apologise. She departs. She hid. She divorced. She remarried. I hate.

I aged. I cried.

Graffiti

Everything here is so drab: my claustrophobic accommodation, the sluggish work transports, the dull lighting of the work arena, this entire city. I just long for colour.

I crept down the fire escape of the accommodation compound into the still silent air. It was well after sunset and the curfew. Little light penetrated this part of the city and everything was dull brownish monochrome. Even in daylight it wasn't much brighter. I'm not giving you my name. That would be dangerous, far to risky, I don't know you. I could be detained for just thinking about this crime.

My eyes adjusted to the familiar darkness. The biggest risk was right outside the accommodation compound. I ran through the large open arena reserved for work transports. Once in the surrounding shrubbery I breathed a sigh of relief. Slowly I hedged passed the derelict hangers and warehouses. Only occasionally flitting across an abandoned road. It was a long route and not particularly scenic, determined by not getting caught. And it was all so monotonously drab.