Libby

She looked at me with the look of someone who had just sniffed a beautiful flower and got a face full of spider’s web for her troubles. I was well used to that look. It was nothing new. I knew I was a disappointment to her, I knew I hadn’t lived up to her expectations.  I never did these days, whatever I did, however I did it, I’d get that look.

It wasn’t always like that, of course not. She had been a playful little kitten, full of fun and energy and loving everything I did, we had bundles of fun together and there was nothing she liked more than curling up together on the sofa watching a film or listening to music. Back then I didn’t even have to try, she was unconditionally mine. But things change, as Billy Bragg said you have to learn to take the crunchy with the smooth. It didn’t happen over night, it was a gradual decline. Familiarity breeds contempt I suppose. I don’t blame her, it was as much my fault, if not more so. I lost interest in her, didn’t have time for her, lost in work and the internet.  So it wasn’t surprising that she started having more fun when she was out and about than when she was stuck home with me. She became reluctant to come home preferring the company of others. Even when I prepared a meal for her, I often had to call her to get her home.

So these days we don’t so much co-habit as co-exist. She walks around the house sulkily avoiding me whenever possible while I try my hardest to impress her. But the tricks of old don’t work any more and to be honest I’m out of ideas.  So come on people, how do you get a 3-year-old cat to love you again?

That Damn Lock

Been a while since there was a red warning, this one is just a little pink.

The key would only turn in the lock if it was inserted at exactly the right angle and jiggled in just the right way and even then you had to somehow pull the door towards you with the key and mutter open sesame at just the right time. Some days it came easily, and when it did Marcus would do a little celebratory jig. Other days, and it was usually when his bladder was full, it would take several goes with Marcus kicking the front door and cursing in frustration. It was not unusual for Marcus to spend almost 15 minutes letting himself in to his own flat.
As Marcus walked towards his front door he preyed to a god he only believed in when he needed something, that that damn lock would be kind to him today. Please let it open first time, he said to himself, please. But tonight Marcus wasn't dying for a wee but dying of horniness.
‘This takes some doing.’ He said as he put the key in the lock.
‘So do I’ said Sian,Marcus smiled, he'd been enjoying Sian's innuendo all night. She slipped her arms around him as he struggled with the key, fondling his chest. They been in this state of sexual tension for most of the evening and the walk home with words, looks, kisses and touches was bringing it to boiling point. Now they were one turn of a key away from exploring each other's bodies for the first time. All Marcus wanted was for the door to swing open followed by Sian's legs. 

'If I just fiddle long enough,I usually have success' Marcus said. 

'Same with me I hope' Sian said giggling and untucking Marcus's shirt.
Marcus jiggled, Marcus wiggled, he pulled and pushed, he tried all his tricks but nothing was working, he was biting his tongue, trying not to kick the door or swear. Sweat was forming on his brow, anger rising in his stomach. He wished Sian would stop her drunken caressing for a while so he could concentrate on the matter in hand, but she was struggling with the buttons on his jeans while he was struggling with the lock on the door.
‘I hope you spend as much time turning my keys,’ Sian said. What? thought Marcus, that doesn't even make sense. It’s nonsense.
‘But I hope you're a bit more skillful,’ she said seductively.

But for Marcus it was the last straw.

‘Just get off me you daft cow, you're not helping’ As soon as he’d said the words he tried to unsay them, tried to press delete, tried to add a lol or a smiley face. It had meant to come out playfully but it contained all the anger he'd been bottling up. He turned to look at Sian, wearing his best I was joking face.
But she wasn’t buying it, her look didn't only kill, it began digging a shallow grave in Epping Forest. She turned and stormed off.

‘Sian’ Marcus said as the door behind him magically swung open on its own. 

Delay

‘This is captain Paul Cousins, you may have already noticed that something isn’t quite right this evening,’

I groaned a resigned groan. One of the perils of flying with BA is that you are more than likely to be delayed. 

‘Because of the mist that is around the Heathrow area,’ the captain continued, ‘we have been advised by air traffic control that we will not be able to take off for 45 minutes. As you can see we are in a queue of planes and so in the meantime to save on fuel we are turning the engines off.’ The pilot carried on talking but I zoned out, I was being killed softly by his words; so bloody British so bloody polite they bordered on being rude. 
I looked out of the window and tried to wish myself to be back at home. But sometimes no matter how much you want something, it doesn’t come true, no matter what those daft Facebook memes say.

I stared out of my porthole into the darkness of the West London night. But airports are never dark, and the lights shone brightly in the clear evening sky. I watched a plane in the distance, its lights growing brighter until it loomed out of the night sky and bounced down onto the tarmac. This was then repeated and repeated as planes dropped from the sky. What had the pilot said? Mist in the Heathrow area. What mist? I could see all things bright and beautifully for as far as my shortsighted eyes could see. There was no mist.  What my eyes couldn’t see was the queue of planes the pilot has spoken about. Because there was no queue, just an old aircraft hanger and a few derelict buildings. Something was odd, I must have had a faulty abacus because something didn’t add up.

I was just about to call the cabin staff when I thought I saw movement outside the plane. I looked again but couldn’t see what had caught my eye. I stared into the darkness looking for signs of life. I couldn’t see anything or anyone, but somehow I knew something or someone was there; don’t ask me why, don’t ask me how, just believe me, I knew. The stillness outside was contrasted with the beating in my chest.

An explosion rocked the plane, followed by a hissing and another quieter boom.

‘Please stay in your seats.’ This time it wasn’t the killing me softly voice of Paul Cousins but an angry, nervy voice. The cabin filled with smoke. This is mist they were talking about, I thought. People screamed, voices shouted, figures hurried passed me and back again. Within seconds the smoke began to ease and the cabin crew ushered us towards the over wing emergency exits where the slides had been inflated and readied for our use.

Divorce Day

After going back to my cubes for the anniversary week last year,  I decided I would revisit them from time to time. This story is one such occasion. (Using the Rory's Story Cubes App for iPhone) 

You didn’t need a magnifying glass to spot the cracks in their relationship. They were clearly visible like the colours of the rainbow across a crystal blue sky. Where once had been flowers and fountains were now fires and fights leaving hurtful words hanging in the air like speech bubbles. Words spoken in the heat of the moment when balance and fair play is forgotten, whether meant or not those words could never be erased and never be forgiven. They became ugly carbuncles on the landscape, permanent fixtures that would leave nasty scars. 

It would take a miracle to save their relationship now, but people didn’t walk on water in Bermondsey, they crossed bridges or took planes, miracles just didn’t happen there. 
There would be tears - both would hurt, both would grieve, both would miss the other but they'd gone too far, lines had been crossed, limits tested. No one was to blame, or both were to blame, neither of them had seen the warning signs until they were crashing over the cliff. 

They'd loved each other once, maybe somewhere buried beneath the hurt there was still love. After all they’d meant it when they’d made their promises, made their vows but there are times when you have to face facts and move on, even if you are just 7 years old.

The Stalker

Greg stared at Lucy and felt his heart flutter. That square face with big, black eyes was, for him, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Greg would do anything to kiss that face again, anything. Well that wasn’t strictly true, Greg would actually do nothing. If he’d do anything, he’d go to her right now, take her head in his hands and plant a kiss on those lips. But he didn’t move, he knew he couldn’t do that. He knew if he did that the new boyfriend would then methodically rip him limb from limb while Lucy had a smile on her face enjoying the spectacle of Mr. Perfect putting Mr. Never Should Have Happened in his place.

So Greg just watched the object of his desire from a safe distance and dreamt of the time when their lips did touch, when his fingers caressed her perfect skin and when for one happy moment Lucy gave her body to him.

She really was flawless, that thick brown hair swept back in a pony tail, the sharp nose juxtaposed against the chubby cheeks, the perfect lips that looked like they were hand painted by god himself. Greg thought back to the first time he’d seen her and remembered how it was her eyelashes that had capture his heart, delicate yet powerful, alluring, yes that was the word, alluring.

She was completely unaware of Greg’s prying eyes. She looked cold, sitting with her coat and furry black scarf still on despite being in the warmth of Starbucks. Her coat was Starbuck green, she looked like a perfect advert for the coffee chain. Her face rested on the back of her hand and her eyes scanned the words on the screen of her Kindle app. 

Hacking her iPad had been so easy, but now Greg bitterly regretted having access to Lucy’s beautiful face every time she looked at her screen. Being inside someone’s iPad is like being inside someone’s brain, through email, Twitter, Facebook and iMessage, Greg knew Lucy’s innermost thoughts. Via Google maps he knew her every move and via her webcam he could see her when she first got up in the morning and when she was just going to bed at night. He was with her for every browsing hour.

But he’d not really thought it through, although he loved seeing her beautiful face, it only made his heart ache even more.  But that was the least of his worries.

First there was the revelation that the night that Greg held up as one of the best in his life, Lucy regarded with self-despising regret. When Greg realised the words how could I be so shallow to sleep with such a loser were about him, they cut him to the core, tears rolled down his face.  Was his dick really that small? Was he really so selfish in bed? But if those words hurt, it was nothing to the sick feeling Greg got when Mr. Perfect came on the scene. Greg was firstly privy to flirtatious texts, topless shots, dick pics and then the full-blown sexts and reports of the sexual gymnastics to her friends. Mr Perfect was getting 9s across the board. Even having pics of Lucy naked didn’t make up for the pain of knowing the woman he loved, loved another. But despite it being painful reading, Greg was addicted. Despite the constant heartbreak and constant reminders of his failure, he couldn’t turn away from the hacked screen.

Greg watched Lucy look up and smile. It was a smile that simultaneously made him smile and broke his heart. It was a smile that he’d never been lucky enough to see in the flesh, one she reserved only for Mr. Perfect and that meant he’d come into the café and would soon be kissing Lucy. Lucy put the iPad face down on the table meaning the camera was facing the floor. It was then Greg saw them, the Ugg boots. Greg hated Ugg boots, they were shapeless, styleless nasty; Ugg for ugly. He couldn’t believe someone so beautiful was wearing such dreadful shoes. He made up his mind - it was time to stop the stalking.

The Parachutist

This story was written with the help of Rory's Story cubes but I managed  to delete the photo and don't have the cubes with me. Maybe you could try to guess which cubes were on display.



Marco hadn't seen Danny looking so happy for ages. it had been 6 months since Sue had walked out and Danny had hardly smiled since. But tonight in the Bridge public house, Marco didn't have to be a genius to notice that something had changed, which was lucky for two reasons, one Danny's moping was really beginning to get on Marco's nerves and two Marco wasn't a genius. 

'What's up with you?' He said as Danny took a swig of his beer.

'What do you mean?' Danny was playing coy but he was desperate to tell someone. 

'That gormless grin.' Marco said. 

'You won't believe this,' Danny started, 'but I've met someone and I think she might be, well you know, the one.' 

'Cool, what's her name?' 

'Jenny,' Danny said, 'and you won't believe how we met.' 

'Try me.' 

'Well it was New Year's Day, I was pottering around the house when it seemed to go dark, like there was a shadow falling over the house. Anyway I nipped out side half expecting to see a flying saucer hovering over the town but it was not a flying saucer, it was a parachute.' 

'A parachute?'

'A parachute and somehow it was being drawn to my house like a magnet. Closer and closer it came, until boom' Danny slapped the table, 'the parachutist landed slap bang in the middle of my garden like that was exactly where she was meant to land. Anyway she took off her helmet and ‘chute and boom, standing there was the most wonderful woman looking all apologetic and a little bit scared.' 

'What did you do?'

'Well what could I do? I stood there speechless looking at the woman who had the keys to my heart hoping that she was going to use them. Eventually the cat gave me my tongue back and I offered her a cup of tea. We chatted  while we were waiting for her team to come to pick her up. I didn't know it was a tradition to do a parachute jump on New Year's Day and she didn't know how she'd got herself blown so badly off course. Anyway eventaully a man with a van came, she gave me a cheery wave godbye and i thought that was that. 2 days later I got an envelope through the door with a card, thanking me for my kindness and suggesting she took me out for a drink to thank me properly for looking after her. That was two weeks ago and we've seen each other every day since. ' Danny sat back smiling at his friend who looked a little bemused.

'You're right' he said eventually. 'I don't believe it.'

The seat

The doors closed and the announcement made it clear that the next station would be Tower Hill. As the train built up speed in the tunnel so did the tears running down the woman's face. The woman made no attempt to wipe them away, all she did was tuck her long blonde hair behind her ear and let the tears fall onto her coat and the floor. I had no idea why she was crying and didn't feel like it was my place to ask, but she was crying a silent river from her glacial blues eyes. I felt helpless, I longed to be able to talk to her, to hold her and wipe away her tears. Assure her it would be alright but there was nothing I could do. I didn't know her from Adam and if I talked to her would be more than likely to put my foot in it and make matters worse. As the train arrived at the station she stood up silently and left the train, leaving a small puddle of tears behind her on the floor. 

Her seat was taken by another woman, shorter in stature and in hair. I was pleased to see she there was a big smile on her big round moon face, no sign of crying. But then she glanced at her phone and her green eyes went from smiling to sadness in seconds. Her eyes welled up, then leaked tears down her face. Hers were more a trickle than a river but her sobs added to the drama. A tear dropped down on to her exposed cleavage exploding like a fountain. She wiped away the moisture then took a tissue out and blew her nose violently, but it didn't stop the tears from creating tracks Smokey Robinson could sing about. Again I had an overwhelming desire to comfort the stranger, but again I kept my distance, too shy and too uncomfortable to help a damsel in distress. She lasted two stops before leaving the train, and this time it was me who took the seat.

As soon as I sat down it hit me like a thunder bolt. I felt an overwhelming melancholy wash over me. An intrinsic sadness that I couldn't control. I felt so bad I thought I’d like to throw myself off the nearest tall building. I didn't know why I felt so sad, all I knew was that I needed to let the tears flow or escape from the seat. 

Out on the platform the air from the departing train hit me and brought me to my senses, I no longer felt the urge to cry, I no longer felt the sadness that had consumed my body while sitting in that seat.