The Last Dance
“May I have this dance?” he smiled at her as she sat, sipping the last from a glass of bubbly.
She stood and he took her hand and led her onto the floor. It had been a long time but his arm went deftly around her waist, and he still led like a pro. With a good lead she managed to spin in her new heels and the skirt of her purple dress span with her.
“Don’t they look beautiful?” he said to her as they waltzed gently past the happy couple.
She smiled up at him and nodded. “Better than we ever did,”
He deftly altered their direction, avoiding a drunken uncle staggering about. “Dave looks good too.” he said, nodding to her second husband, still stood at the bar.
“Hands off you,” she said. “Yours is right there.”
Steve, his partner, bent over a table talking to the bride above the music, didn’t seem to have noticed their dancing.
“I’m glad we got married,” she said.
“You are?”
“I like our kids. Besides, we couldn’t have divorced else now could we?”
Real
That’s the point,
Real is only ever real,
visible,
in those moments
between the lights,
as you dance,
and I dance,
and we dance,
gazing,
unable, to look away.
No Swamp
The swamp is dark, green and hot,
a flatland upon which I am free,
dank, misted fens that surround
below the sky, crows circling me
Sound your words, clear mountain streams,
Take me to your forested hills,
an afternoon of hillside dreams,
Let us not speak of them.
Just an afternoon without swamps,
without dreams,
you and me, under the sky,
let us just be free.
Thunder
I love you with a thousand darkened clouds,
The blackness of the thunder tearing the sky apart
and splitting the world with their lightening flashes
I love you with a thousand fires
each burning hotter than the last
and every coal breaking apart in white-hot, red-hot ash.
I love you with a thousand tears
and each bids me to keep silent
Each rolls over my lids with warm and salted love,
and seals my solitude.
From The Cave
Jack Frost is a tall figure, tall and spindly and slightly blue-grey around the edges. If you were to see him walking down the street then you might think that he was very, very ill. If you were to see him sleeping upon a park-bench then you would probably think that he was dead. He wouldn’t be of course, it’s unlikely that a creature such as Jack would ever be found dead on a park bench. Unlikely, though not impossible.
Jack Frost is responsible for ice crystals, frost patterns and leaves frozen delicately into place on autumn mornings. It’s not exactly a well-paid job nor even especially rewarding, except in the most artistic of ways. The methods that Jack uses to supplement his income are spoken about in dark corners and beneath carefully warmed shadows. Most widely known about are the necklaces that he brings to markets on the edges of faerie, or those several layers beneath London and Baghdad.
The magic inherant in a baby’s first laughter is widely known, indeed there are merchants at such markets who, it is rumoured, have fathered many children to have ready access to such products. Who continually fashion the curious alchemical glassware needed to capture these things. Sometimes Jack does come to the markets with such a bauble, to the annoyance of the merchants he will often come close to giving it away. Those baubles are widely known, those magics are easily captured by the slightest practice of the hermetic arts. Jack brings something unique, necklaces of baby’s tears, bracelets of the impotent rage of children, earrings of toddler screams and the echoes of a child’s first swear-word. These things are unique to Jack, if a merchant is selling them and they are real, then he has bought from Jack.
No one knows how he gets them, though the whispers in the dark places tell of unspeakable things and of horrors in woodlands and the far places of a child’s world. There is talk tht Jack had a dalliance with a woman and that he took something from her and since that time has appeared at the markets with something to sell, something that men have killed for in the past and doubtless will again.
But whatever is said of Jack Frost, that cadaverous, slender man, it is certain that whilst he sells his merchandise, the old and young, the wise and the seekers will all continue to buy.
Muse
You’ve got her in your pocket
And there’s no way out now
Put it in the safe and lock it
’cause it’s at home sweet home
Red hair, swirling over my eyes, I blinked it away, there was a ceiling which bubbled like water and the roaring noise of the falls was in my ears.
Nobody ever told you that it was the wrong way
To trick a woman, make her feel she did it her way
And you’ll be there if she ever feels blue
And you’ll be there when she finds someone new
What to do
Well you know
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he said, pulling his shirt off.
“Would you like some music on?” I asked, sharpening my pencils into the wastepaper basket, as he unbuttoned his jeans.
“Ok,” he said, pulling down his jeans and pants.
“The CD rack’s over there,” I said gesturing, “Choose whatever you like.”
Whilst he bent over the CDs I set up my pencils, putty rubber and pencil sharpener on the desk next to me, then I opened my sketch pad. He put some CDs in the player and sat upon the bed.
“For the first pose,” I said, “Just sit comfortably, something you can hold for a while.”
He nodded.
You keep her in your pocket
Where there’s no way out now
Put it in a safe a lock it
’cause it’s home sweet home
Water rushing in my ears, bubbles escaping my nose as I tried to stop them, my fingers wrapped around his arm. His voice distorted as I kicked beneath the surface.
I unwrapped the cheese from it’s muslin covering and looked out over the woodland below the cliff. I cut myself a slice as I waited for him. The clouds raced across the grey sky and presently his sweating, muscular form appeared and threw itself on the grass besides me. I handed him the lemonade which he drank down immeadiately before tearing at the bread and cheese with his solid hands.
The smile on your face made her think she had the right one
Then she thought she was sure
By the way you two could have fun
But now she might leave
Like she’s threatened before
Grab hold of her fast
Before her feet leave the floor
And she’s out the door
’cause you want
My fingers running over the muscles of his back, red hair swirling across my blinking eyes as I struggled to see beyond the brightness of the summer light.
“We did it,” he said, looking out over the ruined city as the sun began to lay it’s rays upon it.
“Yeah…” I said, “We did.”
And we walked along the cobbled path down to the city.
To keep you in my pocket
Where there’s no way out now
Put it in a safe a lock it
’cause it’s home sweet home
Red hair, swirled across my eyes and the light in them blinding me as never before. My head broke the surface and I sucked in the sweet, fresh air.
“Come on,” I said. “Down here.”
“Ahh,” he said suddenly, “Now I know where we’re going.”
I laughed, “I just hope it doesn’t rain. I can’t believe I was barefoot the first time.”
He sipped his whiskey as we hurried along.
“I seem to remember socks weren’t the only things you were lacking.”
I looked at the lamp-posts as we passed them. “Here we are,” I said, “Number four.”
He sipped his whiskey before putting it down carefully.
“We should do this properly I think, if it’s going to be the last time.”
I smiled broadly.
And in your own mind
You know you’re lucky just to know her
And in the beginning all you wanted was to show her
But now you’re scared
You think she’s running away
You search in your hand for something clever to say
Don’t go away
’cause I want
The water dripped down my face and the light was too bright to watch him walk away, even shading my face with my hands. I could make out the length of his back but the redness of his hair had vanished in the distance.
I had his arm as we walked up the damp slabs of the pavement. She was sat in the window, smoking and we fell silent as we approached. I opened the door as he went to share her cigarette and walked inside, back to the party.
Red hair, swirling over my eyes, I blinked as the mist bubbled like water covering my eyes and the roaring noise of the falls was in my ears.
To keep her in your pocket
Out Of The Frying Pan
The Frying Pan was not your typical greasy spoon cafe although it liked to play upon the image. Ma, behind the counter, looked just slightly too young to be anyone’s actual mother, certainly not any of the patrons of The Frying Pan. If you looked closely at her you might suspect that was because of judicious botox rather than actual youth, nevertheless, Ma was what it said on her namebadge rather than a friendly nickname. It was all about image at The Frying Pan, a real greasy spoon would never have survived in the heart of The City, a real greasy spoon would have had the bankers and the PAs and the enthusiastic cyclists up in arms talking about health and safety or trans fats. The Frying Pan was talked about, but in glowing terms, terms that embraced it’s image and liked to extend it’s pretense that a family run, greasy little cafe had been in The City for generations patronised by those bankers who were down-to-earth and real men’s men.
The Frying Pan had been open nine months. ‘Ma’ had stood behind the formica counter and called unrecognisable terms to ‘Pa’ everytime one of the smartly dressed customers ordered.
The Frying Pan liked to play upon the image and did it very well. Ma liked to pretend that it wasn’t The City outside her plate glass window, on somedays it was Manchester or Leeds or even Sheffield and her shout backs would affect the trace of a Northern accent. The days she pretended it was Manchester her accent was better than the days she pretended it was New York, New Orleans or San Francisco.
Ma’s real accent came from the Home Counties but she didn’t use it much. Ma’s real hair was brunette but she hadn’t seen it in years. Ma’s real name was a lot less obvious than her real accent or real hair and hadn’t been used for half a decade before the brunette had vanished. Ma would quite happily have told anyone that she was a ‘Total fake, but a real fake, like Holly Golightly’ and she didn’t really think that much of herself.
This is why she was surprised to find herself inching along the ledge of the window in her bare feet. “I have my limits,” she’d say, her ‘northern’ accent oscillating from Lancashire to Yorkshire and back again. But her limits appeared not to matter today. She took a deep breath and readied herself for what must come next.
Ma had come in, around four thirty as she did every morning. She had expected Johnny (Pa’s real name) to come in around five, but for once he hadn’t shown up. She’d called his mobile and his home and then she’d gone into the kitchen to work out how to turn the ovens on so they’d be ready when he did turn up. Whilst inside the kitchen she’d been vaguely aware of a pouring sound, like water running in the next room over, but she hadn’t thought anything of it. Ma didn’t have much in the way of a sense of smell and so the fumes didn’t hit her as soon as they might have done a younger woman who’d never smoked. She also hadn’t heard the lock of the front door being forced, it had been done quietly, professionally, so that was understandable. Later she would be very glad that Johnny hadn’t come in to work on time or she’d have been in the front when it had happened. As it was she was in the kitchen in time for the sudden rush of hot air to hit her followed by the unmistakable roaring sound of flames.
Ma turned and the nylon in her skirt crinkled back, showing more fear than she did as years of lectures and training actually hit her. She dropped to the floor as the petrol fuelled fire roared above her across the ceiling. She scuttled, crablike, backwards as fast as she could across the tiled floor. Her shoulders hit the fire-exit door harder than she would have liked, but she knew she bruised her knees when she knelt up to push the bar to open the double-doors. She couldn’t fathom why they wouldn’t open, only that they didn’t and her exit route had been cut short. Side to side her eyes flicked, aware that outside was a few inches away if the door had not been blocked, the flames looked like some vast hot liquid in front of her, racing across the tiled kitchen, then she saw, to her left, the stairs leading to a small staff toilet upstairs.
The tiny staircase was hot and smoke-filled, back smoke that she tried not to breath into her lungs. As she crawled up the stairs the wood grew hotter under her palms until she felt that they were blistering, the nylon on her skirt had melted solidly together with the net petticoat.
It was the sanitary bin that she used to smash open the window in the pokey little toilet, it was solidly full and on the second try broke the glass with it’s weight. The high-heels she tried to use to clear the broken glass away from the edges of the window as she’d seen on television but it didn’t work so she flung them out. That was the first clue that the gathered onlookers had to her being in the building. The second was her eventual emergence onto the window ledge.
“Jump!” they shouted to her. “Jump! Ma! Jump!”
She looked down, through the smoke and the flames and knew that she’d have to do it. She knew that she’d break her legs on the street below, there was nothing to catch her, but it was either that or stay here and suffocate or burn.
She took a deep breath, then Amy jumped.
luvlymish
Mish's Quick Kisses 