Hood

I have just arrived in this city, fighting the demons of my recent past, the pain of being alone again. I sit by the river having walked the streets all day, thinking about all that has been, all that was, my shattered life that I must now bring back together. It seems that the river matches my mood, the grey water is ruffled by small gusts of wind like the back of a cat.

I feel so desolate. I must return to the life before, my apartment empty of all memories of these last few years. I remember how she always told me to keep it, just in case, for a place to get away to. Now I see it as her first betrayal, my mind twists her sweet words into a plan that she laid out, a plan now fulfilled.

I sit here, chain smoking and hiding my red eyes behind dark sunglasses. I miss her. I look back and I don’t know what went so wrong between us. I remember all those days we spent in bed, talking, laughing, how we would wake and just lie there, comfortable in the silence. Even though we had different native languages, in those mornings we were in perfect understanding of each other. Now it all seems like a waste. I feel that I could have spent my time studying, furthering my career, or traveling. I lift my head to the sky, wishing it would pour with rain to empathise with me. The sky is grey, but I see black clouds on the horizon and soon it begins to pour down on my head. I feel stubborn, so I sit there, feeling the water seep through the layers of clothing I am wearing.

I watch as the people run down the street, trying to escape the raindrops. Their black umbrellas form a canopy, like the shell of a great beetle, scuttling along. I spot something bright in amongst them. The beetle clears and a girl is left, standing on the other side of the river in a red coat. The brightness of her coat shines through her drab surroundings. She turns to walk away through the crowd. I start out of my seat and before I know it I am running across the bridge to the point where she disappeared. I stumble on the wet cobbles, and my hand hits the pavement, skinning off the flesh on the palm. I rise, wrapping my stinging hand in my coat. I see a glimpse of her through the crowd and set off again. I reach the other side of the embankment and follow her down the street. She is ahead of me, walking slow, but the bettle umbrellas force me to move more slowly. She turns down a side street and I take the same turning. I am catching up to her, and I begin to question why I am following her, what do I hope to learn?

She turns again, back to a main street lined with jewerally shops. The crowd is like a machine, separating me from her. The umbrellas like cogs turn and I dodge the spiky ends, as if I am being crushed in this infernal contrivance. The girl shines like a light through the grey air. We stop at a crossing and I reach through to touch the hem of her coat, it is made of a rough wool, with a fur trim on her hood. The crowd parts a little and I am almost standing behind her. I don’t know what to do. Then the crowd moves forward again and I loose hold of her. I stop and watch her cross the road, walking away, never aware that I was there.

a cold day

I look out my window at the street below. I wonder what you are doing. Are you out with friends, or sitting alone like me. I picture your room, its cold and it has been like this for several days, if I close my eyes, I can visualize, everything in it. Right down, right down to the broken handle on the third drawer down of the dressing table. And the world outside your room is all so sad and dark on this grey day. The people move about the streets as if they are in a modern shopping centre. Their movements are mechanical and I doubt for the moment if they are real people. Their faces are blank and they turn their heads from side to side looking through the shop windows like circus clowns. In this moment I can stand it no longer to be in my tiny apartment. I put on my red coat, lock my thin door and head down the stairs to the street. I walk slow, looking ahead, not minding the enticing displays to either side of me. I have no idea where I am heading. I think about what I am doing in this city. I am so far away from everything that I know. My friends at home email me to say how they are going on beach holidays, and enjoying the sun in parks while avoiding going to uni. Here I am, in this cold, grey world, with half a degree to my name and no clue as to what happens next in my life. I think of you. Another foreigner, more comfortable in this world, due to the nearness of your country. Yet still I know how you feel drawn away. I wish that it was as easy for me to just return home and regather my strength. I wish I knew where you were. I walk through the city, and memories leap out at me. I pass that park where we sat, the bar where we fought, and the library where I first saw you. These memories are painful, I want to feel everything, but also I wish to be rid of them. I reach the river as it begins to rain. I look out at the river, its back ruffling in the wind. I think how it was once beautiful, but now it is murky and dark. Then I look up, the afternoon light is catching the top of the buildings, it’s beautiful through the rain. I throw my head back to the sky, as if the water will wash it all away and leave me fresh and clean. It rains harder and all the people around me open black umbrellas like dark flowers, blooming in the wet. For some reason I am overcome with an explicable joy, I feel like the only person in this city who is appreciating the weather. I turn and walk homewards, feeling lighter than I have in days. The rain has made a survivor out of me. The streets are slick with water, and the lit windows shine like jewels. I allow myself quick glances at them, as if I am trying not to let them know that I am looking, as if they are fascinating people that I can’t help but take a second look at. I think how this city is filled with such people, how I am part of this world, it affects me, even though my home surroundings contrast so heavily with it. The crowd sweeps me up with it, and I don’t feel like an outsider anymore. I stop at the lights and sigh deeply, breathing in the smells that are so familiar now, but were once interesting and new. I feel like I have just arrived again, that excited feeling, a tremor in my limbs. I return home to peel off my wet things and sit with a cup of tea and a cigarette by the fire, letting the heat seep back into my fingers. This is home, at least for the moment, this is home.

Clifford does sci fi

On 4/2/07, Sara Watson wrote:

It is the 22^nd centaury. The hole in the ozone layer has widened to encompass the whole southern hemisphere. In order to leave the house I must take a portable shield that hovers above my head, filtering out the harsh rays. No one looks up anymore. I see them as they pass my house, taking careful steps, watching their feet, out to places of work or leisure.

It is a Sunday. Today I have no chores to complete and my mother has allowed me out to talk a walk. I step out of our sealed chamber and walk toward the ocean. The bay is walled off from the outer sea with transparent plastic. The water is murky, my grandmother told me it was green once. This used to be the one of the most beautiful countries, full of greenery and clear water, so clear. She used to stay that when she walked with me. At least the plastic keeps out the stench of the sea, it smells rotten, like this island is rotten.

There was a storm last night, the usual kind with lightening electrifying the air particles. The air is always thick, transparent, yet I feel it on my skin. The sand is grey, the sea a pinkish brown. I stop on the beach and activate my hover chair that keeps me from touching the sand. I put on thick gloves and take out a small shovel from the canister attached to my shield. I sit on the chair and turn over the sand below.

Today my efforts are fruitful. I find three pieces of metal with fluted edges and rusty ancient logos on top. The all contain the word ‘beer’, but I cannot think what that could be. I dig further. The top layer of sand has been swept away in the storm, so that the sand almost has a colour to it. I strike something hard, it makes a hollow thud against my shovel. I carefully dig around it, I don’t want to damage it, or for it to crumble through my fingertips, like so many other found treasures.

I brush away the sand gently and lift out a metal box. I am excited by my find, thinking of the story of Treasure Island that my grandmother read to me on stormy nights. I use the end of the shovel to prise open the lid. Inside is some unsophisticated plastic that glints in the light. I can just make out pictures of some stylized flowers in lines on the plastic. I pick one out. It is a small sheet, a bit smaller than my palm, each end is rumpled, but the centre is smooth, as if they have been wrapped around something in the centre. Parts of the plastic are transparent with age and water rot, but I can faintly read a word on the side. “Roses” I breathe the word aloud. It means nothing to me. This box is so beautiful, full of ancient things. I paw at the box and my hand hits something hard. In amongst the plastic wrappers is something small and round. I think it must be a stone, as it is cool and heavy, yet I have never seen one so smooth and white. It jogs something in my memory of a picture I once saw of a beach entirely covered in stones of all colours. I pack up and head home, stowing the stone in a pocket on my breast. Once home I place it on my shelf and it seems to shine like a tiny moon, but whole instead of broken into pieces.

I think of how it came to be on my beach in an old box. Whoever put it there must have been long gone from this place. This piece out of the past is so precious. As I go to sleep I think of the present and the past that few remember.

“I remember” I whisper to the stone, yet I know that my memories are just stories told to me by my grandmother. I turn over and watch the shattered moon through my window until my eyelids become heavy and I drift into a deep sleep.