Touch of Creation

(Short story about an instrumental event.)

Steam lifted the nearly-triangular and flat cardboard box out of the back of his SUV and took it up the back stairs to the rehearsal rooms over the studio.

"Let’s see what we’ve got here."

There were plastic securing tapes around the box – not unlike Plasticuffs, Steam thought to himself – perhaps he could find another use for them later – before he took out his penknife and slit them apart. He lifted the lid off the box.

Inside was a swathe of bubble wrap and polystyrene balls. The bubble wrap contained an object, like eggs in a spider’s nest. He lifted the bundle out and began to tear away the wrap. The roadies would probably have great fund popping the little air cells later, between duties. Or instead of them. "Show me a conscientious roadie," Steam had been known to say, "and I’ll show you a wannabe groupie who couldn’t even make it as a bank clerk." The wrap protested and he tugged hard, shredding it away. Then, revealed at last, like Tutankhamun’s tomb to Howard Carter, there lay before him a treasure beyond price, the shining lacquered wood, ivory-coloured scratch board and gleaming brass-gold frets of a Fender Stratocaster guitar.

It was not the first time in his life he’d uncovered a Strat to the light of day. But the thrill of that first time, that magical moment when he saw the strings, the humbucker pickups and the fret-board, its pale, flesh-maple perfection under its slick patina of varnish, was always the same. It was like the first time he’d had sex, the first time he had stripped a woman and seen her naked, curved body. The moment when time itself held its breath, and he shivered with delight.

"Wonder how you’ll play," he murmured. He gathered the guitar up into his arms and held her comfortably close, like a familiar lover. Or a child, in need of comfort. Suddenly, he was gentle, cradling her, stroking the long sleek neck in an act of tenderness.

Now he was holding the wooden body up to the light, sighting along the length of the guitar like a marksman, armed with a weapon, checking for flaws. The barrel of the neck was dead straight, her aim would be true, he could go into battle safe in knowing she would not jam, or misfire or let him down at the crucial moment. When the notes would cascade like bullets, or shower like communion wine over the supplicants of the crowd. Tonight, during the show, the baptism.

Steam looked at the strings. They were Fender’s own brand and they were fine strings. But they would have been on the instrument some time at the showroom and would they would need replacing, and he preferred his own choice. This were Ernie Ball Super Slinkies with the 9 top E – he’d tried the Extra Slinkies which were an 8, but this was just too light. 9 was just right. He would put them on later, fresh like dew on grass for tonight’s show. But first he just wanted to check the electrics. He reached down for a TEAC cable – alleged to be so tough they were roadie-proof, connected one end to the angled cable slot rudely on view on the front of the body, next to the control knobs, the other into a small Marshall practice amp, and snapped on the chunky red switch.

The guitar became alive.

He caressed the strings, held down a G major . Amazingly, the instrument was almost in tune. Considering the rough ride it must have had from manufacturer to showroom to him. Steam tried a few more chords – the D was out – a riff, and a couple of runs – everything was fine. He just needed to get the Slinkies on and give them the chance to settle down – new strings always took a while to bed in and would slip for some time on the machine heads. Get the in-transit strings taken off and play in the new strings ready for tonight, when they and their blood-red and sunburst new home would start earning their keep before a live audience.

Hard-egg came in the room. "You got it?"

Steam nodded. "I don’t like changing guitar in the middle of a tour – it’s like changing ladies in the middle of the night. I wanna stay with the old one."

"Romantic bugger," said Hard-egg. "You should have thought of that before you trod on the old one."

Steam looked at his old sunburst Fender standing in the corner of the room. Already battered before the ‘mishap,’ gouges and scrapes in her skin, varnish worn right down to the wood on a fretboard that had had an army of fingers march across it, the scratch plate was cracked and the pickups depressed inwards. Steam felt contrite. "Yeah, well – I dunno, I was really drunk at the time. I didn’t know she’d fallen over. What’s that melon-head technician say about getting her fixed?"

"Solder-iron Boy? He’s out now getting new parts. I don’t think he’ll have her fixed for tonight. It’s almost tea. You’d better get prepped."

Steam picked up the psychedelic pink packet of Super Slinkies. "Already on it," he said.



The concert was a sell-out, the tour indeed was sold out, the album climbing high in the charts. The new Stratocaster had a lot to do and it didn’t let Steam down. When it came to the big solo, screaming and aching to touch a level of meaning that no words could match, it was like the guitar was playing him. His back arched, his fingers bled to please, the feverish desire of every note soared over the heads of the enraptured crowd.

A young man in the audience, at his first ever gig in his life, felt the pleading urgency and spirit of the guitar seeking him, stretching out to him. His skin rose in goosebumps, the hair on the back of his neck bristled.

Just then, as Steam tipped himself back to the peak of the final squealing crescendo, a solitary bright spotlight held him in its aura, the dazzling beam bounced off the diamond-shine of the Stratocaster’s smooth slab body and shot into the fan-mass to the young man, sanctifying him, in a blazing spark of brilliance. It was like God reaching out to Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

The young man now knew what he must do – with himself, with his world, his life.

He must play guitar. A new guitarist was born.

The End

Sucks In The City

(Short story that, for reasons explained elsewhere, has to include the following random word pairs and expression, namely: "axe lips, war stick, city hair, basket vampire, zip book, door vomit, pan party, banana lace, shelf buttock, nest beauty, specially for Carol.")

Karl was late.

Ironic, considering what they about to, and its emphasis on speed. Speed implied promptness. And Karl couldn’t even get here on time. Just to mock him, it seemed were all the stainless steel and glass clocks on posts down the surreal pathway he’d just walked along, like a deleted scene from Alice Through The Looking Glass.

Darren Taylor adjusted his suit and checked he wasn’t getting pits under his arms in the warm summer evening. He had spent his day in shirt-sleeves in the air-conditioned offices of 1 Canada Square and now he would rather be relaxing in front of the TV, his shoes and tie off, with a can of beer and take-away. Instead, he was standing around outside the huge arched glass canopy of Canary Wharf DLR and Tube station, looking along the waters of Heron Quays and wishing he could go home.

Not that it was much of a home now. Not since Carol had left. But he’d sooner skip on the DLR and take the five short stops to the small flat he occupied in Mudchute, rather than carry out the frankly stressful undertaking Karl had suggested. Or insisted on, to be more accurate. "You’ll love it, man," he’d said. "I never miss it." Where the Devil was he?

Darren was within seconds of chucking the whole idea, when he heard Karl’s inimitable and somewhat irritating greeting. "DT! Sorry I’m late, buddy, but just had to clinch a final deal for the week-end. Nothing like making a small fortune to set you up for an evening out. How about yourself – close on anything good today?"

"I may I lost the company millions again – I don’t think I understand any of this business." Darren realised he was talking to himself – Karl was already setting off across the concourse towards their destination for the evening, The Merchant Banker on Grime Street, south of the Quays. That was the official name of the bar, but everyone who worked in Canary Wharf knew it as The Muck and Brass or simply Grimy’s. This was probably after someone had pointed out that "merchant banker" was rhyming slang for something else in the rest of London, especially to the indigenous residents of the East End, where the two city slickers worked.

Darren hurried to keep pace with Karl. "I’d rather have had a shower and changed before coming out," he said, struggling to keep up.

"Nonsense!" said Karl. "You want to catch everyone while there’ll still on a high from doing business."

"I don’t feel on much of a high."

Again Karl wasn’t listening. "Striking fast is the whole point of the battle, buddy. Knock ‘em off their feet before they’ve had time to have second thoughts."

"Battle?"

"Got your war stick ready?"

"What?" Darren was perplexed.

"Your killer chat-up line. Speed-dating is like going to war. You’ve got to make split-second decisions. It’s hard, it’s aggressive and you’ve got strike fast. Your war stick is a killer chat-up line in the dating battle – sticks the prey like a butterfly in a display case for you to enjoy at leisure."

"I thought we were going out to meet some girls, not to kill them."

"Of course not," said Karl. "Take a few prisoners perhaps. That’s why you need a good chat up line. You’ll learn, buddy. Might take you a bit of practice before you hit on one that suits you. Just don’t use the one I tried when I first started."

"What was that?"

"You won’t believe this." Karl suddenly halted and turned to face him, as if confessing to a long-redeemed misdemeanour. "I used to say, ‘Your eyes match my duvet.’ Nearly got me slung out of the place."

"It isn’t very subtle," said Darren.

Karl still appeared not to hear him. "No use at all," he nudged shoulders with Darren. "It’s speed-dating. You’ve got to be much more direct than that! Here we are." Karl took another step, then halted again, just outside the entrance of Grimy’s. "One last thing – door vomit."

"I beg your pardon?"

"If you’ve got any emotional baggage in your guts, buddy, chuck it up now and leave it at door."

"So best not to think about Carol."

"This is specially for Carol. After all, DT, she walked out on you. This is where you get your own back. You go in there with ‘rebound’ written all over your face like that, the lassies will spot it a mile away and never come near. Come on."

They plunged into the bar of gleaming glass and chrome, and vicious Budweiser neon. Darren sometimes wondered if the architects of Canary Wharf had simply forgotten the existence of dark timber and its calming grandeur. Perhaps he wasn’t a city slicker at all. Maybe he should be a labourer on a farm or something. Before he could speak, Karl had thrust a bottle American beer in his hand when he’d far rather had had a pint of bitter. "I’ve already paid for our tickets. We’ve got about 15 minutes before the off, let the latecomers straggle in. Gives you time to loosen up and absorb the atmosphere."

"What atmosphere?"

"Just take a few deep breaths," said Karl – all too literal and missing the point. "Just about to meet someone – several someones in fact – that could be that special person – "

" – or persons – "

" or persons," Karl agreed, "in the rest of your life. Which is about to start now. Prepare to get cooking!"

"Cooking?"

"Cooking in Life’s Take-Away. The wok of human relationships – it’s stir-fry time in the pan party of pulling. Time to get sizzling. And, if you feel yourself losing your bottle – well, just buy another bottle, one for you and one for her, some tart-fuel or one of those huge great goblets of wine the size of a bucket. Of course, you may end up with a six-pinter at the end of the evening if you can’t see straight, but that’s all part of the game.

"You’re such a romantic."

"That’s my man. It’s a good idea to have some kind of game-plan – think of the sort of woman you want to go for. Don’t waste your time with anyone who’s not your sort."

"How do you tell which is which?"

"I’ll give you a run-down of the different species and how to spot them. City hair means a Power Girl working in the Square Mile or Canary Wharf – probably worth a few quid but she will expect you to be the same. Basket vampire – looks cute as a kitten but get her home and she’ll expect you as her new S.O. – that’s Significant Other – to be a meal ticket on the gravy train for life. When they’ve got something frilly and colourful showing above their business suit, that’s a spot of banana lace – one bit of female decoration on androgynous City clothing to suggest ‘I am a girlie, really.’ Though for goodness’ sake, don’t call her that or she’ll freeze your assets off in a flash. Beware axe lips also. Not to be confused with ‘wax lips.’ They look DDG – "

"Drop dead gorgeous?"

"You’re getting the hang of it – and as kissable as they come, but you disappoint one of them…

"And they’ll chop you down with a sentence."

"With a word, buddy, with a word. Lastly, look out for the nest beauty. Pretty as a picture, but all they want to do is set up home somewhere – have you picking out fabrics and deciding on colour schemes before you can say ‘Where’s my slippers?’ Unless that’s your type, of course…" Karl let the statement hang in the air like a question. However, Darren refused to speak. "Sometimes wondered if that’s what you thought Carol might become."

"Really?" Darren was surprised.

"Never would have happened with Carol, though, DT."

"Why not?"

"She was a Power Girl, if I’m any judge. If you thought she was the settling-down-and-having-a-quiet-life-type then you were pretty much mistake."

"I never really thought about…" Darren trailed off. Maybe he had got Carol wrong. After all, she had left him, for some reason. But, on the other hand, if Karl was right, maybe he would have one day wanted to leave her. The high life didn’t really seem to be his thing.

"Ready for the off?" said Karl.

"Ready as I’ll ever be."

"OK, here’s the rules. Here’s your ticket. This let’s you into the Enterprise Lounge. When the hooter goes, you’ve got five minutes. Go and talk to the nearest available female and see how you go. It’s alright to take notes, because by the end of the evening, the faces may have become a bit of a blur. She’ll be doing the same, probably, or putting you in her zip book – that’s her PDA –"

"Personal Digital Assistant?"

"That’s right. Probably a Blackberry or something similar. Replaces the old ‘little black book.’ You want to get your mobile number and email address in there as fast as you can. Likewise, you want to get her contact details – assuming you’re interested – and mark how attractive she is as you go."

"Why don’t I just give her marks out of ten?" Darren remarked, dryly.

"Excellent! That’s what I do. Then at the end of five minutes, the hooter goes and you move on to the next filly, and so on. By the end of the evening, you see how many you’ve got, rank them in order and start giving ‘em calls over the week-end."

"Wonderful."

"If we cross paths as we circulate, we can have a quick check on numbers." Karl nudged Darren’s shoulder. "Just hope we don’t go for the same ones, eh?" At that moment the hooter sounded. "Here we go! Catch you on the other side."

Darren had to tackle his demons. The demons of shyness, self-doubt and simply not knowing what he was doing. What was the killer line he was supposed to come out with? A lady with city hair approached him. Therefore he had to speak.

"Hello."

"Hello"

(Going well.)

"Your eyes match…" He broke off. This was not going well.

"Of course they match, you rude little sod! How dare you!"

The blonde goose-stepped off. No wonder they called it speed-dating. From his first seeing her to her disappearing forever had taken eleven seconds. He needed another drink. At the bar, a raven-headed woman was ordering "a JD straight up, large."

"I’ll have the same," he called over her shoulder. She turned to see who had attached himself to her order, with a slight pout. "I see you like a stiff one," he said. Her expression withered to disgust. Four seconds.

Darren stood, pulling on his drink, feeling like a spare groom at a wedding, trying to spot any other female singleton he could approach, while waiting for the hooter that would toss the ingredients of the people-wok into the air again. Karl cantered past, pursing some brunette who, to Darren, appeared to be trying to put as much distance between herself and Karl as possible. "Isn’t this great fun, DT?" he yapped. "I’ve got two numbers already!"

"Bully for you," thought Darren.

By the half-hour mark, he had interlaced eight meetings with eight drinks orders. Things had only got worse as he tried to remember Karl’s patois of the dating scene. At one point, Karl hove into view, and Darren would have asked him for a little more advice. Instead, he got an idiot grin from Karl as he held up his outstretched hand to indicate the number, five, as he scuttled off in pursuit of some other lady. Darren had tried opening with compliments, which had been OK if a little predictable at first, but as the alcohol took its effect, he had started to come out with comments such as "you have banana lips," "I like your hair nest," had invited one to an axe party, called another girl a zip vampire and described yet another to herself as a war beauty with a face like a pan.

"I’m no good at this, am I?" He slurred wearily to a rather shapeless female, one of the few still left, and for whom the choice of a jacket in houndstooth check had not been well-considered.

"Talking or standing?" she remarked. "You seem to be having trouble with both."

"What’s the secret of chatting someone up?"

"If I told you, one of us would have to die." This was her valedictory remark.

At last, the final hooter-blast of the evening sounded, a voice over the PA announced the speed-date session was ended, and invited to people to relax. To help with relaxation, I Predict A Riot started blasting out from speakers in every corner. Darren screamed an order of another JD from the barman and slumped disconsolately on a bench. He had just about completed feeling totally sorry for himself when Karl showed up, Budweiser in one hand, and pen and notepad in the other. "What great a evening, eh?" he bellowed, so close to the side of Darren’s head that his voice made Darren’s ears ring. It was necessary as Karl was in competition with Hard Fi wailing out Cash Machine. "You stay sat on the sidelines much longer you’re going to suffer from shelf buttock!"

"So you got lots of dates," Darren yelled.

"Loads!" Karl yelled back. "A great evening!"

"So you keep saying."

"What?!"

"I said, I’m very pleased for you. I didn’t get any!"

Karl took this in. "What, none at all?"

"None at all."

Karl abruptly slumped in an echo of Darren’s posture. "I’ve got a confession to make."

"Yes?" Darren wasn’t really interested.

"I’ve had a rotten night."

"What?"

"Rotten. I got none, too. Not a one."

"None at all?"

"None. Nix. Niente, nada, null points. Zero, zilch, the leather medal, the wooden spoon – "

"I understood you at ‘none.’"

"This was supposed to be a brilliant evening for both of us. A brilliant end to a brilliant week. Do you want to know something else? I didn’t close a big deal this afternoon. I haven’t closed a brilliant deal all week. In fact, not for a number of weeks…"

Darren hated to see a grown man cry. Even if it was Karl. And he was just about a grown man. "Never mind, Karl," he said. "I’ve got a great idea where we can go and have a good evening."



They slumped down in front of Darren’s TV to watch a Cheers marathon on UK Gold, battered cod, chips and curry sauce steaming in their laps. Darren yawned and rubbed his face with both his hands trying to clear away the images of the evening. "That was the worst best time I ever had."

"I can’t argue with that, buddy."

"You know," said Darren, surprised that Karl had heard him through his fingers, "I think I’ve decided. I’m going to pack in my job, first thing Monday, sell this place and move to the country. Maybe live on a farm in south Wales. Property’s cheap there."

"Now that is speedy decision-making," said Karl. Darren waited for Karl to give some half-wit reason why he couldn’t leave the city and become a country boy. But he didn’t. "Darren?…" Karl said slowly.

"Yes, Karl?"

Karl propped his head up on one hand, unwittingly plonking his elbow in his curry sauce.

"Do you think I could come too?"

(This story originally appeared at http://cadwc.blogspot.com/, before also being at http://nickyjpoolewritings.blogspot.com/)

The End.

Echo of the Mind

A cool breeze was just starting to lift off the Atlantic to give some relief at the end of a hot New Jersey afternoon. This was invitation enough to bring out the early evening drinkers to the Ocean Club down the avenue from Point Pleasant. Guy loved this time of day. He knew, as he rolled his Ferrari F430 Spider into the parking lot, that the women’s heads would turn. He would leap out over the door without opening it, and the gentle wind would just catch his expensively-coiffured shock of straw-coloured hair, ruffling it and making him look even more interesting. If that was possible, with his tan good looks, Versace jeans and the fact that he’d arrived in a diamond-graphite coloured car that cost more than some people paid for an apartment.

Dino already had his Long Island Iced Tea, mixed just the way he liked it, with extra Sour, by the time he reached the bar. He raised the glass, already steamed with condensation, and took a long, satisfying drink before he spoke.

"How’s it hanging, Dino?"

"Just fine, Mr Richards, just fine. How’s things with you?"

"You beat me to it, Dino." He put his glass down carefully on the bar and pushed his Ralph Lauren shades up into his hair. "Just fine." He cast his gaze round the bar. "Usual crowd in here this evening?"

"One bit of class out there on the veranda. I thought you’d have already noticed her."

"I certainly did, my man," he said, with a twisted grin. "Just wanted to check I wasn’t dreaming. I didn’t want to ask you to pinch me." He collected his drink and set off towards the striking woman standing out on the veranda, sipping a cocktail and staring out over the breakers.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself."

Guy hesitated, as if tangling with a problem. "I know you must get this all the time, but – has anyone ever told you that your God’s own spitting image of Julia Roberts."

"Happens all the time," she said, over the rim of her glass. She was weighing him up, he sensed.

"You’re not Julia Roberts, are you?"

"Ssh!" she grinned. "No-one’s supposed to know. I’m incognito."

He held out his hand. "Guy Richards."

Her long eyelashes fell and rose slowly before she placed a delicate hand in his. "Evelyn Turner."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Evelyn."

"Nice car you got there."

"I like to think so." Guy realised the parking lot was not visible from this side of the club-house. "You noticed when I drove up?"

"Yeah." There was a tiniest flash of her tongue as she took another sip of her drink. "I like fast cars."

"Maybe you’d like to get better acquainted with it?"

"Maybe I would."



That was the trouble with Ocean Avenue. It ran along the New Jersey coast which, at that point, was dead straight. So the road was dead straight. No reason to slow down, hold the car back.

"Faster," Evelyn breathed.

Guy liked to open up the Spider whenever he could – he loved the thrill of the wind dragging at his hair as much as anyone could. But there was a time and a place. Now late at night was one thing. But Ocean Avenue was not the place, with the local townships nearby and all, and after a long evening drinking. If a blue-and-white caught them, he’d get more that a ticket for speeding. DUI and he’d be in jail.

He nudged the accelerator downwards then eased back a little.

"Faster!" Evelyn demanded.

"We’re doing one hundred and ten now," he grimaced, trying to still sound calm.

Evelyn was laughing now. "Is that all? Surely this thing can go faster?" It was like a lover’s request.

Guy pounded down on the accelerator and the Italian engineering roared with delight. "There’s a red light!" Guy yelled into the slipstream.

"Jump it!"

There was no traffic, either approaching or crossing. Guy decided to go for it.

Just as they reached the point of no return, a car pulled out in front of them.

Guy would have hit the horn if hadn’t been wrestling with the wheel. He also toe-poked at the brake. The anti-lock would not have given up traction easily but he wanted all the control he could hang on to, and not to turn the vehicle into a sliding one-fifty mile an hour coffin. Rubber screamed. The car slammed into the sidewalk and tipped at a crazy angle, tires off the tarmac, before crashing back down. It careered on, snaking this way and that as Guy strangled the speed out of his mechanical pet, lest it turn and roll and bite him, and it finally slued to a halt almost half a mile beyond the intersection.

He was dazed, exhausted, soaked in icy sweat, when he realised the beautiful woman next to him was laughing.

"You enjoyed that." He wasn’t sure whether he intended it as statement or a question.

She was panting like a race horse, just coming down, her own spittle on her cheek. "That was magnificent," she gasped, and huddled against his shoulder, closed her eyes.



"I used to come here when I was a boy," he told her. It was the latest of a number of dates they’d been on in quick succession after that first night and slept together. Always she wanted him to push the Spider to the edge of its capabilities. Artfully, for a change, after picking her up from the Ocean Club, he’d headed inland east of New Brunswick to some woods. He thought if he could get her out of the car and maybe just walk, she would calm down a little. Not that her excitement wasn’t infectious. On the contrary, it seemed to seep from her into him. Just that, sometimes, a little quiet was also nice. The woodland was a favourite place from his childhood. At the end of a path there was a clearing with a high, rocky point, from which it was easy to see the skyscrapers of Manhattan, clustered like blue-grey shapes, more than twenty miles away. He took her there now, and showed her the view.

"D’you ever go to the Big Apple?"

"I used to," she said. "I used to love going up the WTC, to the observation deck, and tell myself, ‘Hey – I’m a quarter of a mile off the ground.’ It was such a thrill. I always thought it was a shame you couldn’t lean right out over the edge, because of all the fences and everything. To stop the jumpers."

"Well, you don’t want to go too crazy jumping round here. The cliffs here are only about fifty feet but you’d do bad things to yourself if you stepped off one."

"Really?" She seemed to find the place more interesting.

"I used to come here with my Dad," he said. "He was more like a big brother to me than a father. We used to play a game in the Fall. Just a silly game. We’d try and catch the leaves as they were falling. One at a time. It was crazy. Such a simple game. But we’d have hours of fun playing it."

"What happened to him?"

"He died when I was a kid." Suddenly, he couldn’t say anymore. He wanted to say that his Dad was his best friend. He wanted to say after he’d gone, he was all on his own and nothing made much sense for a while. He even remembered how lonely he he’d felt back then. In his mind’s eye, he saw a solitary kid, quiet and abandoned with no toys and no friends and nowhere he belonged. But it just sounded corny so he kept silent, pushed it all back down inside.

"I can think of a game," she said, suddenly animated. She pulled her silk scarf from around her neck and abruptly tore it in half, giving two long strips, "Come here."

He was standing right next to her anyway but he moved closer. She took one of the strips, folded it over then placed it across his eyes, and tied it behind his head.

"What are you doing?" he said. "Hey!" She suddenly spun him round, several times, then let go. "What gives?"

"Hold on," she said. "I’m just putting my blindfold on too… There. Neither of us can see!" She took his hand and started dancing him around. "Don’t take it off," she sang out, "don’t take it off."

"What are you playing at?"

"Know which way your facing?"

"Not a clue!"

"Run!" She screamed, "Run!" She grabbed his hand again and dragged him into a stumbling trot. "Come on, come on, come on, faster, faster!" she kept yelling at him.

He staggered trying to keep up with her. "It’s dangerous!"

"I know. But it makes you feel alive! Run!"

He plunged headlong in total blindness, the ground constantly leaping up to hook at his feet. He could feel she was tripping and bumping into him but still upping the pace, laughing wildly. Something snagged his foot and he fell full length, she landed on top of him. Winded, he tugged off the silk blindfold, just in time to see her do the same.

They had fallen at the very edge of the cliff.



After that, Guy didn’t know where to go out with Evelyn. He had been really scared after the woods episode. He called in at the Ocean Club without making a prior arrangement to meet her. He was just beginning to relax, thinking he would have his evening to himself, when she arrived, carrying a purse, ordered a drink. "Come walk with me on the beach," she said. He followed her down the wooden steps from the veranda onto the sand. There was nothing much of any threat down there. Unless she planned taking a swim, in which case he’d certainly not join in.

It had been a blast knowing her though. He wanted to please her. By the time they had walked fifty yards and she’d said nothing, he found himself wishing she’d suggest something. Eventually, he spoke.

"You like danger, don’t you?"

"It’s a turn-on, isn’t it?"

He surprised himself by laughing. "Yeah. Yeah it is."

"I knew you did. That’s why I do it."

"Do what?"

"All of it. For you. To give you a thrill. You like a thrill, don’t you?"

"But somebody could get hurt."

"Of course they could. It wouldn’t be a game without all the parts."

"What game?"

"Like playing with your Dad. But it’s not a game unless there’s danger. Didn’t your Dad like danger?"

He saw a shy little kid in his head, without a Dad. "You didn’t know my Dad. Nobody did."

"Wouldn’t you like to play another game right now?"

"What sort of game?"

"With two friends of mine." She reached into her purse and pulled out a gun. "With my two friends, Mr Smith and Mr Wesson." He stopped in his tracks. She handed him the revolver and paced out ten steps. "How good a shot are you?"

"What?"

"How good a shot? You could hit me at this distance, right? Then I’ll go a little further." She took another ten paces.

"I haven’t fired a gun since I was a kid."

"Don’t worry. I don’t want you to hit me! I want you to miss. But you got to see how close you can get."

He held the dull metal object in his hand.

"I can’t."

"Go on," she begged. "Think of the thrill. You don’t have to aim all that near to me."

"I can’t," he said again.

"But I want you to. It excites me. And I know it excites you. Look how we make love afterwards. Isn’t it always great? Because you feel so alive?"

He hesitated, lifted the weapon, then lowered it again. "But not like this, Evelyn. I can’t do something like this. This is too much."

She stood a second, as if waiting to see if he might still take the challenge. Then she came over to him. "If you can’t give me a thrill, then how can you expect me to do anything for you?"

Something stirred in the far reaches of his mind but he pushed it deep back down. "I can’t," he said, as much to himself as to her.

"Maybe you and I should call it a day," she said. "It was fun for a while. But you’re not alive anymore." She reached out for the gun. It was as if she had already made up her mind. He didn’t want to lose her. Suddenly, another idea seemed to occur to her. "I tell you what. I’ll give you one more chance. If you’re too scared to shoot at me, shoot at them!" She indicated the gathering of people on the veranda at the Ocean Club. "Do you think you could hit anybody at this distance?"

Before he could stop it, an image leapt up like vomit from his inner being. A young man, standing outside a sleazy dive, his clothes worn to rubbish, knees through on old jeans stiff with dirt, his yellow hair greasy and matted with neglect. Inside the bar it was noisy and bright with neon, people having fun, friends enjoying each other’s company. Outside, the scruffy young man, alone, in the dark, and shivering with cold, his skin pale and ingrained with dirt. How he longed to have someone to talk to, how he longed to have enough money to share a beer with someone – anyone – and if he could make contact with female company, that would be wonderful. He’d feel alive. All he had, in the pocket of his rough jacket, was the Smith and Wesson.

"Go on," she said. "You can’t hurt them. They can’t even feel you. Go on."

The yellow-haired man raised the gun and took aim at the crowd.

He could feel himself squeeze the trigger.

The End

Sleight of Hand

He proffered both brown hands,
held them out before her saying, 'choose
with care.' She eyed each one. They looked alike,
but weren't. She knew that, so chose the right.
With a flick of the wrist, the hand opened to reveal
far greater secrets than it ever had concealed.
A tomato, small and round as a red pearl lay on his palm.
She reached to touch and it became a ruby
from a sultan's ring, a glowing ember - too hot
to handle - never play with fire,
a blackbird that began to sing, a Persian cat
that got the cream, a Fabergé egg, a risen phoenix
on its magic carpet, the crock of gold,
the rising sun, new moon, all before her very eyes
which held his with a gaze steady and old as the Nile.
He looked deep. 'Choose,' he urged. This time
she chose the left, spied a golden coin and snapped it up.
Her dextrous fingers peeled away
the wrapper and in one mouthful, the chocolate
held inside was gone - until next time
they shared the simple mysteries of the Universe.

A poem from me to christen our blog - conceived and created by Peter - what a great idea.

Feel free to interpret or comment as you wish,

Susanne.

Cafe Society

Back then, life - a blank page,
waiting for a bigger splash.
"Ill have a large espresso."
A portrait by Picasso in his Blue Period
hung askew on a rough plastered wall.
All thought it amazing.

Among wooden tables and benches
feelings ran high,
things took an age to happen.
Our cafe society,
caught between the high school dance
and the bar's dark corner.
Sometimes I would stand around,
in later days, in other places;
sometimes I fell down.

Hi everyone, Max here. I thought I might make a contribution to our blog so thoughtfully started by Peter-he of the wonderful reading voice. I will place the time and location of this poem. The Tarrella Coffee Bar, Winckley Strret off Fishergate 1963-64. when I was 17. All comments will be most gratefully appeciated.

Times Change But Gifts Are Forever

(Test posting, just to get the ball rolling)

I may be getting old, but I am a little surprised at the furore about the supposed danger of toys from China in the news today. Gone are the old days, when you would be grateful if your parents gave you anything, like a box of matches or some weed-killer.

I still remember when, for my birthday, my Dad gave me a hand grenade. He made the gift-giving into a real occasion, too. He said, if I was a good boy, for a Christmas present, he'd give me the pin.

The End