[Fiction] Friday: Derby

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for May 29th, 2009:

Put this into your story – “Time out! Time out! We can call that, right?”

This week's story follows on from last week, where we had Detective Hartog investigating the murder of high class call girl Clarice and the mystery of a a strange metal capsule known as an InfoCap.

“Zero one hour and fifteen minutes … and holding.” The bass thundered and the retro nineties dance mash up began, pumping the crowd, who needed no additional priming. But it was tradition.

The semi final bout had brought out a capacity crowd of fanatics and another record bidding match for the broadcasting rights. Hartog had pulled in some big favours to secure the two tickets. He was hoping the gamble paid off.

The ref’s amplified whistle shot outward from the centre of the rink like a line of gun powder racing towards the keg. A cheer exploded from all sides of the stadium as the Jammers, skating ten feet behind the main pack accelerated forward to make their first jam.

The Scarlet Penetrator’s Jammer in her diamante encrusted red tutu and black leather bustier nudged ahead with two huge strides. A naughty peek of ruffled black lace knickers showed, as she bent down. Her fishnet clad legs criss crossed as she cut directly across the path of her rival, tacking for the outer most edge of the pack. Hartog caught a split second flash of the blades on the hubs of her wheels.

His guest beside him remained unnaturally still, in the seething maelstrom of Penetrators supporters, hands folded in his lap, knuckles white in the roaming strobe lights.

The Betty Buster’s Blockers at the centre of the pack, in skimpy lycra nurses get ups barely containing their iconic large breasts, drove at opposing points in the centre of the pack, forcing open a rush space. The Buster’s Jammer hurtled through but was caught at the last moment as the Penetrator’s pivot threw herself against the Buster’s block, forcing both of them into the Jammer’s path.

The Pivot and Block won the battle to stay upright and the pack sped past the fallen Jammer. First blood! It spilt out onto the pristine floor and splattered the white uniform. The howl of protest at the opposite end of the stadium was reflected and amplified on their side by cheers.

“This should be interesting,” Hartog said, leaning into his companion’s ear to ensure he was heard..

The injured Jammer clambered to her feet and after a few wobbling glides, gained her equilibrium. The blood flowing down her leg pooled at the top of her boot and then down the sides, leaving red tracks as she sped towards the pack. The blood slick made the bout even more interesting.

“The lame duck flies again.” Hartog got to his feet and rooted with his arms in faux animation, taking the piss more than finding solidarity among the Penetrator’s fans.

On the opposite side of the rink a Penetrator was down and from the huge real time screen above the score board it was obvious she wouldn’t get up. The tide of blood beneath her was spreading quickly.

The fans were on their feet screaming out in protest and outrage, then in encouragement. Her injuries had the potential to be fatal. The seat beside Hartog was suddenly empty.

“Time out. Time out. You can call that?” He looked hopefully down to Hartog who shrugged his shoulders. “Surely you can call time out. TIME OUT.”
“Shut up dickhead,” the guy two seats up yelled, shoving Dirk’s visitor back down in his chair. “Our girls ain’t pussies.”

Hartog smiled a wry smile which made his mouth look like it was affected by Bells Palsy. He could have chosen to have it repaired – just like the roller derby girls who would be fixed up after the bout and ready to skate the following weekend, but he’d chosen not to have the nerve damage repaired. Gene manipulation, stem cell mechanics, accelerated skin grafting. It was a quick fix society who didn’t tolerate sickness or disfigurement. It meant guys like him could literally wash away the scars – on the outside. He liked to be reminded. And it made others uncomfortable.

Anything and everything could be repaired. You just had to keep the heart pumping long enough. Sometimes the ref’s whistle came too late and all the blood had drained away, the heart stuttering to a heroic end. Or the girls were caught out in the Danger Zone.

“Never been to the blood derby?”
BenJin shook his head with a violence more emphatic than any words he could have mustered. His pale face stood out amid the red faced sea of fanatics surrounding him.
“It’s barbaric.”
“Only if you go down in the first minute and your team mates can’t or don’t want to defend you before you make it to the Blood Zone.”

There had been two reasons to bring BenJin to the blood derby. Firstly he had a penchant for girls in short skirts, legs and big boobs. There was plenty of those here tonight. Secondly he was counting on the sight and smell of the blood to loosen BenJin’s tongue about his sister’s death.

Hartog kept smiling.
“You know they can fix that.” BenJin’s eyes strayed to the massive electronic bill boards encasing the inner fence of the rink, advertising the two major sponsors – leading biomechanical firms.
“I was going to say the same about our razorblade belles there. Just as long as you keep the heart pumping right?”
“I hear the fans show their loyalty in the number of pints they donate.”

Hartog was certain he heard BenJin snort.

The injured Penetrator inched her way across the rink, one hand pressed hard against the gash in her thigh, blood leaking from between her fingers and the other fist clenched, as she used her forearm to brace and drag herself towards the inner sanctum of the rink. The Blood Zone – where she would be able to bleed free of the fear of further injury. If she could make it before the pack returned.

Hartog imagined Clarice had employed the same manoeuvre trying to escape broken and cut up from her attacker. The finger tips on her right hand had been torn – down to the bone on one digit. Soft pink fingers scrambling to make purchase on the coarse grey concrete. Dragging herself away as she bled to a terrified death. Whoever had murdered her had meant her death to be a painful and undignified end.

BenJin shifted in his seat. Hartog was certain BenJin knew enough details of Clarice’s death to be disturbed. He had the technology and the expertise to find out if he wanted to. And Hartog knew BenJin wanted to know.

Hartog could not have shaped the bout more perfectly had he personally scripted it.

“She’s haemorraghing.” The Penetrator’s movements were slowing as the pack sped towards her, the pool of blood behind grew. “Why don’t her team mates do something? Shit.”

Hartog was pleased at how unsettled BenJin was – so early on in the bout too. Team mates, regardless of personality clashes and disparity in corporate sponsorships, kept each other safe in the finals series. The blood letting always happened in the opening rounds when scores were settled and sponsorships were still in flux.

Two Penetrators cut from the pack to run defensive sorties across their injured team mate’s path. There would be no sudden blood in the semi final.

“They both exposed themselves to an unwarranted attack to protect her.” BenJin’s eyes were fixed on the bleeding woman crossing into the blood zone. “You just don’t understand the intricacies BenJin.”

Hartog noted with satisfaction his guest flinched at the use of his name.
“It’s Benjamin. I’m not here in a professional capacity.”
“I thought this was the sort of thing you scum of the earth feedos got off on.”
Hartog put his hand into the inner sanctum of his trademark overcoat and wrapped his fingers around the InfoCap.

“That’s where you braindead coppers don’t understand the different between hype, voyeurism and integrity. Look at any of my news feeds and you’ll know I’m not interested in this -” waving his hands about at the rink “ propaganda of the irrelevant. It’s just another fucking Coliseum.”

Without shifting his eyes from BenJin’s Hartog lay his hand in the feedo’s crotch and allowed his fingers to open like a defiled lotus blossom.
“What the … Shit!” BenJin’s voice softened. “I told her not to.”

Hartog’s fingers closed around the InfoCap.
“Shall we go somewhere quieter to talk.”
BenJin nodded and was on his feet, forcing his way through the baying crowd.

Author's Note: all constructive criticism welcome!

Fiction Friday: Hartog

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for May 22nd, 2009

"A high-priced prostitute suspects that one of her best customers is falling in love with her."

Hartog stood at the door to the brothel holding the tiny capsule between his bent pointer finger and thumb. He turned it over allowing what little sun penetrated through the smog haze to bounce off what he guessed was titanium covering, then slipped it back into the inner pocket of his jacket.

It was too hot for the jacket but it was one thing Global Warming couldn’t make him give up. Hartog felt naked without it. Hot and smothered in it. Still he wore it. Good thing, he thought as he pressed the buzzer on the intercom.

He spoke before the receptionist could get a word in.

“Detective Hartog here to see your boss. She knows I’m coming.”
“Good morning Detective Hartog.”

So polite. He wondered what she was wearing. He couldn’t help himself. A French maid in vinyl - or leather. After all this was an up market establishment if his research was correct. A flimsy silk nothing with cheeky nipples peeking out at him or a gushing black creation of lace revealing a lush expanse of cleavage.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm for you work Detective, but I will just confirm your appointment with Miss Amanda.”

Damn it! The woman had summonsed him. And here he was loitering at the door like some common Joe. He pulled himself up again. This was an establishment, not a brothel and the door looked like any other door on the strip. He could easily have been waiting for his accountant or lawyer or style guru to buzz him up.

“Thank you for your patience Detective Hartog. Miss Amanda will see you now.”

He glanced at his watch and waited for the door to click. It was a good he’d never had an interest in getting on the Vice and Device team. His mind was too fertile, too active to allow sex and breasts and legs up to here to bleed into his thoughts. Cloud his judgement. Women were always his downfall. Dead was the only way he could cope with them.

The receptionist was waiting for him at the door, in a simple black suit, a flourish of scarlet beneath the jacket. Fumbling with his holographic badge, he mentally dropped kicked himself – caught up in his own fantasies. No lace or leather here. Purely business.
“May I get you something to drink Detective Hartog? Coffee, tea or perhaps something a little stronger?”
“Water will be fine.” He’d given up the hard stuff. His doctor telling him it was booze and an early grave, which for a while had seemed the better option.
“If you take a seat Miss Amanda will be with you in a moment.”

Ten minutes later Miss Amanda appeared in an almost identical black suit, this time with a violet blouse beneath, plunging to unbusinesslike depths beneath the tailored suit jacket. Hartog dragged his eyes from the cleavage and rose from his seat. She towered over him and that was saying something. Even without the heels she was a giant. And he knew, that she knew it.

“I appreciate your expediency Detective,” she said, striding down a corridor to a large, sun drenched office with lush tropical plants at strategic decorating points. “I was just tying up a loose end. I apologise for the wait.

It had to be a trick of lighting. There was never that amount of clean, clear sunshine in the city. Everything was painted in the tawdry shade of pollution – but in here, the den of iniquity it was bright. No shadows dancing in the corner.

Miss Amanda motioned to a spartan leather chair to the side of her desk and settled herself opposite him, a pitcher of water between them and two crystal glasses. No expense here. It was more comfortable than it looked. Many things in this place were more or less than they seemed.

Miss Amanda, the Madame was one point in question. She was neither young nor old. Her dark hair rolled into a timeless French bun at the back of her head and her long legs casually crossed. Neutral make up enhanced her simple beauty. She could have been stunning but she chose not to b.

“I am interested to know how the Clarice’s case is progressing Detective.” She poured and offered him a drink.
“It looks like the case of another whore being cut up.” He took a long gulp at the ice cold water and winced the pain freezing his frontal lobes for a moment.
Miss Amanda uncrossed her legs and lent forward. “My girls are not whores Detective. Let’s get that straight from the beginning. Clarice was one of my highest paid call girls. She has a Masters degree in Engineering and was studying for her PhD.”
“And her death is bad for business.”

Miss Amanda lent back and recrossed her legs. Hartog took out tiny recorder and placed it on the table in between them.
“You don’t mind if I record this conversation.” He couldn’t bring himself to call her Miss Amanda and she didn’t fit the title of Ma’am. And he wasn’t really asking her permission any way.

“Clarice came to me about a month ago and told me she had a problem. It appears one of her clients had taken an unhealthy interest in her.”
“It’s a rather unhealthy business you dabble in.” He narrowed his right eye and looked hard at Miss Amanda – no surname that he could find on the City’s database.
“I told you Detective my girls are not whores. They are paid for services other than sex. They are sought after because they are intelligent and beautiful. Clarice was worried he was falling in love with her. That it would complicate things.”

“Don’t mix love and business hey?” Miss Amanda didn’t bite. She didn’t even twitch. “Who was this client Clarice was upset about.”

Miss Amanda’s eyes lowered and held the warp and weave of her suit pants in her gaze as she contemplated her answer.
“As you can appreciate Detective – my business is of a delicate nature and we normally protect the identity of our clients. But in this case..” she broke off and poured herself a glass of water. Long pale fingers curled around the crystal glass. She drank slowly. “Clarice had a number of high profile friends through our agency.”
“Miss Amanda,” the words fell out his mouth before he could catch them. He felt like he was addressing the old bitch who had taught him third form algebra. “Either you tell me now or I come back with a search and seize warrant.”

“Let me remind you Detective you were invited here for this discussion and that my friends sit in places much higher than you.”
“Touche.” Hartog stood, reaching out for the recorder and turning it off. “Strictly off the record, who was Clarice concerned about.”
“She told me Howard McClean was in love with her.”
“The Minister of Defence!” Hartog sat back down in the warm leather, allowing it to cushion and comfort his skinny frame. “You are telling me the Minister of Defence, the former leader of the Puritan party is one of your clients. That he’s implicated in the murder of a call girl.” Hartog laughed. “I’m sorry Miss Amanda, but I just don’t believe that.”

“Mr McClean has a penchant for smart, witty women. He likes conversation. Clarice was good at conversing. You only have to look at his wife to know he’d be seeking stimulation outside of his marriage.”
“Are we talking double entrendes here?”
Miss Amanda ignored him. “I am suggesting to you Detective that someone got to Clarice as a warning to the Minister. And I imagine that would be of interest to you and your colleagues at the Department of Civil Welfare.”

Hartog turned the recorder back on and placed it on the table between them.
“Was there anything special about Clarice?”
Miss Amanda reached out and switched the recorder off.
“You insult me with such a question Detective. Perhaps I called the wrong person.”

Hartog stood again, slipping the recorder into his deep coat pocket.
“Thank you for your time. I will keep you updated as to the progress of the case. And I do appreciate our little chat.” He emphasised the words, mimicking her faux politeness. Smiling a crooked smile and let himself out before she could get out of her chair.

As he rode down in the elevator he slipped an ear pod in and waited for the phone call. He sat further down the street drinking a bad coffee when the call finally went through.
“They have Hartog on the case.” “Did he mention anything about the InfoCap?” “He said nothing about anything found on the body and I didn’t want to venture with leading questions.” “Did you really think someone like Hartog would whip the InfoCap out onto the table and ask if you knew what it was?” “I did as you asked. I feed him the information. Now what?” “We wait and see. Did he mention Clarice’s brother?” “He’s got no idea. He never mentioned her surname. He thinks it is just another whore being cut up – quote unquote.” “The department would not put Hartog onto a whore slashing. Sit tight. You have done well Amanda.” “My pleasure sir. Would you like me to book you someone for this week.”

Hartog smiled and took the tiny capsule out of his pocket again. So it had a name. An InfoCap. He charged his coffee streaked mug in mock toast to Miss Amanda and waited while his notebook brought up all the information the City’s database had on Clarice, wirelessly programming the last known address for her neurologist brother Benjamin into the NavMan. It was only when the photo of Benjamin came up Hartog smiled with genuine heart for the first day. Benjamin, aka BenJin was the city’s most notorious feedo. The day was getting more interesting by the second.

The recently added part two in the Dirk Hartog series is Derby

Unsent Letters #8: The Sun

Dear John,
The sun was out today. I took myself out with a book and lay there for hours. It was like I was a depleted battery sucking up the energy. It felt good to be warm again. I took a book out with me but couldn't concentrate. Which doesn't surprise me - I didn't think I would be able to concentrate, but like the sun, it felt good to just hold it in my hand.

Smal touch stones my mother would say. Small things that anchor us in the here and now. Who would have thought she would go all new agey.

I'm sending you some beautiful sun John - breathing the gorgeous rays of light into every word as I write them.

I hope it is warm where you are - somehow.
Love Sissy xxxx

Unsent Letters #7: Parents

Dear John.
I should have known that by some weird 6th sense my parents would have known about yesterday and descended. Which of course they did today.

I tried to assure them I was ok - which was pretty hard given I don't remember the last time I slept for more than two hours at a stretch - nor went to sleep before the small hours of the morning. It seemed I spent more time trying to ease their worries that the reverse. I didn't dare tell them about the police coming over yesterday. It would have really set them off.

What they have done - which hopefully will help with the worry and the stress - Dad will pay the rent until I am back on my feet. I wanted to assure him I would pay ever cent back once I got back on my feet but I just smiled and said thank you. I have no idea when I will get back on my feet.

Mum told me I need to take it one day at a time, one hour, one minute. Sounds like she's been reading some weird Louise Hays stuff - or Buddhist. That sort of stuff is Buddhist isn't it. So I worked at it while they were there. One minute at a time until they were gone.

Mum begged me to come home and stay with them - they were really worried about me and my safety. I told them I want to be in my home, surrounded by my stuff. I don't want to be fussed over. Just left to get on with it as best I can.

They were so careful not to mention you John. After the mail incident I took all the mail and hid it. I should have asked Mum and Dad to take it over to your parents - but I didn't want to put them in that position. I might ask Larissa if she will drop it over to your parents. They will know what to do with it. But at the same time - I don't want to make it any worse for them than it already is.

What would you do John? Would you're parents have fussed and carried on the way mine are now if our places were reverse. If you were here and I was there?

Unsent Letters #6: Anger

Dear John,
I'm angry. They say that it's cathartic. They say that it is good for me. Someone has even tried to tell me that it is a compass and I should look to where it is pointing to get my answers. To find some healing.

Well if my anger is a compass it is pointed squarely at the police.

Two of them turned up here today and stood at the door expecting to be let in. I looked down at the pile of mail growing for you on the table by the door and wanted to scoop it all up and hide it before they came in. But of course there was no time.

They of course stared at it and stared at me. No one made a comment though. It was like there was a huge pink elephant doing the macarena in the loungeroom that everyone pretended wasn't there.

They said they just wanted to ask a few questions. I told them I wasn't feeling up to asking any questions - perhaps they could come back another time. They told me they had been patient up until now and they really had to ask me the questions. I could feel the sear and the crack in my head.

Told them I had a head ache to come back another time but they insisted. So much for community relations.

I don't know why they bothered. I couldn't tell them anything they didn't already know. I don't know what they were expecting. Me to tell the truth or something? Assuming that I actually knew the truth? I have no idea what was going on in your head at the time. I thought maybe they were trying to pin it on me - given they can't get to you. When I kept saying I don't know they treated me like I was being obstructionist - that's the word I'm sure they used. As if I was purposely feigning a mental lapse.

So now they've got nothing more than they had a few hours ago and I've got a head ache which feels likea canyon is cracking open down the middle of my skull. The medication they've given me makes me puke - so it's have the head ache, or try and keep the stuff down long enough to have an effect then hope the vomitting doesn't bring it on again.

Wish I had have known what you would have done in my circumstances. Gone and hid somewhere quietly like when the Jehovah's came around. Remember the dude that knocked on the door the first Sunday we slept at the new place - before there was any furniture and the three of us just drank and passed out on the shag pile carpet? Who puts shag pile down on the floor in the tropics and thinks it's a good idea.

Remember the guy knocked on the door, 'happy first morning in the new house - as per the jehovah's' - he took one look at me and said 'a picture tells a thousand words and I bet you've got a good story to tell.' I don't remember now if I just shut the door in his face of tried a wise crack.

At least I'm smiling now - even though my head hurts!

We were good together - weren't we John. Bad, but so good at it!

Love you
Sissy xxxx

Life Is Sweet

In honour of Mercury Retrograde (active until May 31st) and on the heels of my Write Anything column this week 10 Writing Tips for Using Mercury Retrograde Energy here is some old writing I've dug up - circa 2001! Thankfully my ability is weave fact and fiction has become a finer art form rather than an act of being clobbered over the head with a sledge hammer. It is a first draft and probably littered with errors! Let the embarrassment begin ...

Lily was a mathematical genius she decided. One bottle of chardonnay, plus one bottle shiraz and a bottle of bubbly tossed in for good measure equalled one bloody sore and swollen ankle – even when the total volume was divided by two – half for Lily, half for Wil.

She looked down to the contortion of swelling and mulberry coloured bruising that had been a slender ankle five days earlier. They said that you learnt from your mistakes and she had learnt an important lesson – the consumption of large amounts of wine did not empower one to think that they could take the dog for a walk at midnight, if your mobile so chose to have no service in the particular area that you were partaking in these large amounts of wine .. and further more … if this midnight wander was for the quest of mobile service so one could ring a friend in England to track down one’s ex boyfriend’s new work number – then - one should just stay at home, crank the music up a little louder and start on the Black Label Bundy. The result may be one hell of a headache in the morning, but in retrospect a far better option than the consequences currently being endured.

Lily scribbled out for the fourth time that evening the sketch that she was working on for her dress for the Moulin Rouge party. The dull throbbing in her ankle was sweeping into a grand crescendo of pain. Mind over matter, she told herself … mind over matter. There was nothing worse than self-pity and she wasn’t going to wallow in that. It had been her own stupid, drunken fault and she would just have to endure the pain, the inconvenience – and – the loss of pay.

“Fuck off!” she swore savagely, as an obese ginger cat, grazed past the crutches neatly stacked against the utility bench in the eating area, behind where she was currently sitting – aimlessly doodling now.

The cat threw her a distasteful look and commenced rubbing against the crutches.

“Fuck off you stupid cat – are you deaf as well as fat.”

Screwing one of the discarded sketches into a ball she turned awkwardly and hurled the pink craft paper in the direction of the cat. It missed by a wide margin and the cat continued to rub its wide head against the crutches, pushing harder against them as they slipped further from it’s pleasure pressure until a moment later they clattered loudly to the off white coloured tiles.

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” swore Lily, pulling her injured foot from the chair across from her and preparing to hop after the much hated feline … and then …

“Is everything OK?” Wil asked calmly emerging from her room, an untidy longhaired Terrier trotting along behind her

“Eeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,”
“I’ll go get the cat and lock it out side.”

As usual the fat feline had not ventured far and within a minute it was duly banished from the house. Wil picked up Lily’s crutches and replace them against the utility bench.

“Are you sure you are OK?”
“I’m fine,” lied Lily in a strained voice, sneaking a look at the equally annoying Terrier out the side of her eye.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Nope I am fine.”

Wil stood there taking in her friend knowing she was lying through her teeth and probably did want a drink but was so exasperatingly independent that she would rather forgo a drink than ask someone else to get her one.
“Well if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure!”

“Are you in much pain honey?” she asked, looking down concerned at her friend’s normally calm face that was forcing the fakest of smiles,
“I’ll be fine. I think I’ll go back to bed and put my foot up. Put some more ice on it.”
“That’s probably a good idea. Now you are sure that you’re fine.”
“YES!”

Lily dragged herself to her feet, gathered up her crutches and gracelessly made her way to the freezer for the ice pack.

“Hey Wil,” she called. “You know how fat cat’s name is Primrose Mary – and how Frank’s into his old boats and stuff.”
“Yeah.”
“Well what do you reckon that if Primrose Mary was a boat that - say sank – do you think he would see the funny side of me drowning the cat in the fish pond.”

Wilbur laughed heartily.
“I think it might be difficult to explain.”
“Yeah. But it was it would but it would feel so bloody good!”
“I know it would babe. Why don’t you grab the ice pack and go rest.”
“Even for medicinal reasons …”
“No Lil.”

At that moment there was an electronic bleep from the adjoining room – Wil’s bedroom.
“I’ve got mail,” Wil quipped happily and disappeared to her email program.

Lily rolled her eyes, slumped against the fridge door and resisted the urge to cry.

“It’s not for me?” Lily called, but she could already hear Wil’s fingers hitting the keyboard in response. “Never mind,” she mumbled, organised the crutches just so, then hauled on the door, got the ice pack and terry towelling cover and fumbled her way down the hall to her room.

The room was reasonably large for a spare bedroom, sparsely furnished with a single bed, an ironing board, a small ? table, a CD tower and a small beside table that held a clockradio-come-cd player. The floor looked like the after math of World War III in a Chinese laundry. Wil had laid a towel down over some of the clothes so when the dog came into her room it wouldn’t sleep on her clothes – just on the towel that was on her clothes. Grrrrrrrrrrr!!! Muffy the bringer in of dirt, grass and burrs.

Lily clamped her eyes shut, tightened her fists on the rung of the crutches and tried not to scream out in sheer frustration. The tiny taps of toenails on the cold ceramic tiles, snapped her out of her inner explosion. She glared at the small dog that looked up at her with big sad eyes from beneath long dishevelled hair. In an instant Lily believed in spontaneous human combustion and that was she about to be the next casualty, as she felt the pressure build up inside her. The dog tentively stepped into her room and look for a comfortable place to lie down.

“OUT!” Lily screamed. “OUT OUT OUT you stupid mongrel. OUT!”

“Muffy, c’mon Muffy” Wil called from her room, in a sickly sweet high pitched tone that just added fuel to Lily’s fire. “C’mon out of Lil’s room.”

The dog gave one last traumatised look and trotted back down the hall. Lily accidentally/on purpose let the door slam, then set about negotiating her way through the mess of clothes, plates, empty coke cans and books on the floor. She just wanted to go home! House sitting with Wil had lost its charm.

When she was an able bodied bi-ped capable of cooking, cleaning and hanging out washing, driving, showering standing up, putting her dirty clothes in the washing basket and generally just being normal (if that was a possible classification for her!) – it had been great. Now it was just a nightmare. She looked distastefully down at the plates on the floor from last night’s salmon risotto that she couldn’t carry back down to the kitchen – that was if she could find a square inch of bench in the kitchen that wasn’t covered in the after math of Wil’s cooking to put it.

With well skilled fingers, she strapped the ice pack to her ankle with one of Wil’s long woolly khaki army socks and propped it up on the mountain of pillows at the end of the bed.

Everything had gone pear shaped and she just wanted her own bed … and Mum.

Now there was a complete cock up if she’d ever seen one.

Saturday morning she had woken with an ankle twice it’s normal size and so painful she could barely move. Wil had still been over the limit to drive Lily to the doctors so in desperation Wil had messaged Lily’s Mum on the internet that Lily had hurt herself.

Like the dedicated and loving mother she was, Lily’s mother had driven the half an hour into house sitting and had then driven her another half an hour back out to her GP, waiting with her, driven her to the hospital for x-rays, back to the GP, to the pharmacy for a cold pack and then back to house sitting. It was three hours that seemed to be three days to Lily, especially as her hangover started to descend on her like an ominous black throbbing cloud. Yes, she had been less than pleasant to her silently suffering mother, and yes, she had snapped at her – but hell she’d been in pain – lots of pain.

Back at house sitting her Mum had wafted about the kitchen looking for ways to help. That was when Lily’s resolve broke.

“Mum – just GO HOME!” she had stormed.
Wounded, her Mum and turned and walked out the door.
“Mum, I’m just tired and in pain,” Lily had tried to explain to soften the blow of her words. “I just want to go to bed and I do appreciate you taking me to the doctors.”
Then her Mum was gone, hurtling down the road in her little Nissan Pulsar and Lily felt like a complete shit.

Sunday night, merry from State of Origin drinks, she’d rung to commiserate with her Mum on the thumping of the Maroons and got the answering machine. She’d left a somewhat garbled message, thought not a lot more of it and sat down to watch the end of “ET” which ended up being a more interesting and exciting option than the football. Monday afternoon it was the answering machine that greeted her and then she began to worry. Her Mum always rang back – fearing the worst she rang her sister.

“You’re an ungrateful and selfish person,” her sister had attacked. “Of course Mum is pissed off with you. You were so rude to her. She’s not talking to you and I don’t blame her.”
“What! I told her that I was tired and sore and that’s why I wanted her to go.”
“No you didn’t. You yelled at her to leave.”
“No I didn’t – what would you know.”
“She came home and told me how nasty you were to her. You’re so selfish.”
“You’re a fucking bitch. Fuck off.”
…….and down the phone had slammed, proving yet again that Lily and sister did not get along.

Lily had sent an offline message to her Mum that morning trying to explain without being a sap, what had happened and that she had not meant to offend her – and still there was stony silence from her mother. It made her feel violently ill – she was never on bad terms with her mother – never! Now all she wanted to do was go home and even that option seemed like a mirage in the current climate of family love.

The chill of the ice pack cut into the traumatised skin. Lily tried to relax, but the tension inside, combined with the morbid feeling from the falling out with her mother left her wondering at which point the bomb inside her would go off. Reaching behind her, she turned the CD on, fast tracked to song 6 and lay there listening the to surreal voice of Dido.

Where was her phone call that made everything better? A week ago she was almost over the broken foot she procured at Easter time, John was happily writing to her from Tennessee once a day, work was finally looking up and life was sweet.

The bottle was always half full in her opinion, but she had to admit to herself that it was becoming increasingly difficult not to see it as half empty – especially when you were now a tri-ped (one good leg and two crutches) your charming e-mailer was off screwing the recently moved in next door and divorced young woman – who was coming to terms with life – and you had no more sick leave to cover you absence from work.

With a rueful grin, Lily did admit all would be bearable if Wil would just give in and let her sacrifice Primrose Mary to the goldfish in the pond out the back.

Unsent Letters #5: I'm sorry

It's all my fault. I'm sorry John.

I was talking to Larissa today. You'd be proud of me - I actually picked up the phone. No screening calls and no procrastinating about calling someone back.

I told her it was all my fault. She drove straight around here. She says it is not my fault and I'm not to think like that. I'm suspicious though. Larissa hugged me. When was the last time she hugged me - ever?

I kept on though. I said it was my idea ... I encouraged you to do ... and this is where we ended up. She was quiet then. I know she wanted to say something but you know Larissa. What would she say. It wasn't something you could just joke about, fob off with a silly smile. She hugged me again.

It must be my fault. Larissa never hugs. It was like she was saying yes it was your fault but you're still OK with me.

Should I ask her if that was the case John?

I want it to be my fault ... but I don't want to have to be responsible for the guilt and pain. I want to say sorry - but first I have to admit I did wrong?

Help me!

Sissy xxxx

Unsent Letters #4: Toothpaste

John,
I'm tired!

How many times did we say that to each other. I dont' remember now what your record for the most number of days strung together without sleep. Mine was three I think - over that Christmas weekend with the English backpacker and the bouncer. It was when I was hanging out with the crazy girlfriend of yours while you were off back home sorting yourself out. Sad it never worked out you between you and Dallie ... but then again, in the end I didn't like her, so perhaps it was a good thing after all.

I was thinking on your name today. For some reason my body is tired but my mind can't be reigned in. I was thinking about all the Johns. The first one coming to mind was John in the colgate add. Remember:

*bash bash bash on the bathroom door*
"Let me in John I bet your using my colgate gel!""

I never asked you if you used colgate gel - or aim. We used Aim at home. How is it we never talked about toothpaste. Did we argue once about the toothpaste we used to get? I don't remember now - but I seem to remember so many other things? I remember we used to get Aim toothpaste and for some reason remember it was the toothpaste which first cracked the 'gel' market - before we knew gel was something you put in your hair to make it stick up like you had put your finger in an electrical socket. I remember when Aim toothpaste came in the pump pack for all the families who lost their lips. Yes - toothpaste once had screw on lids - not flip tops like they have now.

Just like cans of drink (and beer) had ring pulls - now they have the other sort. I remember Bill getting a ring pull can from the vending machine at the beach and us all howling with laughter and daring him to drink it - it was probably old and off. Actually it was everyone else howling with laughter and daring him ... I was just hanging back like always.

You weren't there - it must have been some other holiday other than Easter.

I don't even know what toothpaste you use now John?

Sissy xxx

Only My Heart Calling

This is the prequel to Fiction Friday's Summer Girl.

Rob stared at the photo in his hand, dogged eared and soft with age. He remembered the day they got together infront of the brick wall. Their friend Gordie with his camera and the black and white film they'd all chipped in for.

Four faces staring back at him. Four faces in various guises of cool, detached, brooding and goofing off. That was the four of them then. Before it all fell apart. Back in the days when they were going to be rich, famous, in the top 40 and together forever.

He shoved it into his back pocket and knocked on the door. When no one answered he knocked again. Behind the sage green door he could hear the mumble of Julia’s voice. He assumed it was Julia's voice. “Julia, it’s me Rob. I know you’re in there.”
He waited a few minutes and tried again.
“C’mon Julez, open up … please.”

The guitar felt like a lead weight in his hand. Coming down the hallway didn’t seem as good an idea as it did half an hour ago.
“Go away!”

His knocking became more urgent. “Don’t be like that Julez.
The door opened a crack. Instead of looking at him, she looked down on the floor and frowned when she saw the guitar.
“I’m not up for a sing along. Go to bed.”

Rob forced his foot between the door and the jamb.
“Get your foot out or I’ll go and call security.”
“Can’t I come in for a few minutes and talk.”
“There’s plenty of time to talk tomorrow. You’re drunk. Go to bed.”
"You think I'd have to be drunk to do this?"

Rob threw his weight against the door catching Julia off guard and took a couple of steps into her room. The first thing he saw was the bottle of gin.
“You brought gin with you?” Rob glared at her.
“It’s not what you think.”

Her face was red but her eyes sad. The flash of anger gone leaving a wash of melancholy in it’s wake.

Rob leant the guitar against the wall and snatched up the bottle of gin, screwing the lid off as he strode to the bathroom and poured it down the shiny stainless steel plug hole. He thought about the first time he’d done it to Julia – her screaming like a banshee, lashing out at him with her finger nails and biting him. He knew she was an alcoholic even back then. He thought she would have got herself sorted out by now.

This time she leant against the door frame watching him, resigned and tired – a once graceful yacht with the wind taken from its sails. Rob held the empty bottle over the sink longer than necessary, rescrewed the metal lid on and handed it back to her.

“As I said, it’s not what you think.” She dropped it in the bin and folded her arms. “I’ve been on the wagon for ten years now. I was on the phone to my sponsor Marty while we were banging on the door to get in. It was a dumb thing to buy coming in through customs. I just thought … So you got in.” She smiled at him, the first smile he’d seen in an eternity. “What do you want to talk about at midnight?”

Rob was silent. He didn’t really want to talk. He wanted to stare at her face – look for the familiar contours and quirks – the face he once knew like the back of his hand – which like the back of his hand was now older, wrinkled. The youthful glow gone and a hard determination left in its place.

He had sat in his room a few doors up and remember what it had been like once to hold her in his arms, their naked bodies pressed together. His finger winding the russet strands of her hair. Remembering the way she would look at him when she pulled her sunglasses down on her nose, eyes twinkling. The way she looked in his PJ top, her long legs gorgeous beneath the striped flannelette. But he couldn’t tell her that.

“You brought your guitar. You planning on serenading me?”
“I never serenaded you. It was more like you caught me in the allure of your voice. Like a siren.”
“Poetic Rob.”
“What do you think a song writer is …. Jim Morrison was a poet first and foremost in his mind.”
“And dead now.”
“He was dead when you worshipped him.”
“You grow up. You live and learn.”

The room was chilly. Even though it was June, Julia had the air conditioning cranked, pumping out frigid air.

They stood staring at each other, Rob trying to work out where the hell the girl he had once loved had gone. Julia trying to fight the old pull towards him. She understood now why she had exiled herself on the other side of the world. Desire. Guilt. Regret.

She shouldn’t have come. But she didn't have a choice.

“I’m sorry for being snarky.” She unfolded her arms and walked across to where the guitar hung out by the door – like a groupie, watching and waiting. “Play me a song. You could always put me in the right mood with your guitar.”

Rob took it reluctantly now, and sat in the door way of the bathroom, his back braced against the frame. He remembered the moods he could get Julia into with his guitar, but he hadn’t bashed down her door to seduce her.

She sat across from him, sitting as she had always done, kneeling with her feet neatly tucked under the bum. He picked at the strings. He knew what he wanted to play, what he wanted to hear her sing. But now sitting with her across from him, her face unreadable he wasn’t sure he had the guts. It seemed stupid, petty - so long ago.

Twenty years ago, after she’d slept with Zac she had just disappeared from his life. Cleaning out the meagre savings she had, boarding a plane to London. No note, no good-byes. No nothing. Then a message a month ago from Jason saying UQ were holding the 20 year anniversary of their Battle of the Bands – wouldn’t it be fun to all get back together a play again.

Maybe for Jason, thought Rob who had always just wanted to be up on stage with legions of nubile girls adoring him and inviting him back to their place. After the band busted up Jason had tried stand up comedy – he’d gone to his first couple of open mics but couldn’t bear any more. Jason had no sense of keeping face and Rob could only cringe so much on his behalf. Then he’d tried acting – unsuccessfully so and finally gave in, after dropping out of uni, tried carpentry and ended up as an agent. He's seen his name occassionally. It would be impossible not to be owning the biggest digital indie music house. The Australian music industry wasn't that big.

It wasn’t Jason’s harebrained enthusiasm for the band’s reunion – but Jason’s assurance that Julia was flying back home from London to play with them again. And Zac.

As Rob’s mind wandered, his fingers picked out the tune they had come to play and when he looked up, he could see the tears, cold and wet on Julia’s face. He pushed the guitar aside and crawled across, taking her in his arms.

“I’m sorry Julia. I …”
She cried and Rob held her tightly until the shudders died down and all that was left was his damp shirt and a few sniffs. She looked up at him through her puffy eyes and asked, “I never understood why the fascination with Margaret Urlich. Seems so – so Un-Cureish.”

Rob laughed and squeezed her tight.
“It’s not Urlich – it’s the song. It was the first thing I ever heard you singing. Up on the stage in the refect. You must have been a first year.”
“Seems a million years ago but somehow appropriate now." She wiped a finger under her nose. "My heart’s been calling to you for twenty years but I’ve never been brave enough to come back and face you. That night with Zac…”
“That night with Zac was twenty years ago. Let’s just be happy in the here and now.”

“But…”
“Twenty years in London seems like penance enough.”

Fiction Friday: Summer Girl

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for May 15th, 2009:

Four college bandmates who haven’t seen each other in years travel back to their former campus for a reunion.

Jason looked terrible – prematurely grey, wrinkled, over weight and still pretending to be young, beautiful and cool, when he’d never been any of them in the first place. The picture on Facebook had either been photoshopped or was a good ten years old.

Rob didn’t want to judge him, they had once been brothers in arms, if not friends in a weird musical kind of way, but he couldn’t help but stare into the face of what he may have become. Hanging onto a dream that died years ago.

The small talk dragged on as the three of them tried to find common friends, common incidents – anything in common to talk about. Anything but the band.

“Fuck – this is so middle aged,” Jason said, with an over exaggerated sweep of his arm. They were sitting in the Coffee Club on the Queen Street Mall. “When did we ever have a band meeting in a café. I remember getting together in that fucking dive you lived in Robbo – up there on Petri Terrace. Flagons of port and goon. Pissing the old ladies off next door jamming until all hours. Man – those were the days. Now we’re doing lattes. There must be somewhere open at 10am for a beer.”

“You really think that going into a bar at 10am in the morning is a good idea when Julez is a recovering alcoholic.”
“Shit Julez. Sorry man. I had no idea.”
“It’s cool.”

Jason’s phone went off, blaring “We Are the Champions” and he picked it up.
“Yeah babe, sure. Yeah yeah. I’ll pick you up later on.”

Julia grabbed his hand under the table and squeezed it. He could feel her rubbing the indent in his finger from the wedding band.
“Sure. Later babe.”

He tossed the mobile across the table and lent back in his chair. “She’s a babe. Leg’s up to here and just 23 years old. Half your age and add seven years. That’s the formula I go by.”

Julia shot a look sideways at Rob – he’d seen it before. Rob pulled his mobile out of his pocket and sat the brand new iPhone next to Jason’s battered Nokia, as a waitress stopped at their table.

“I’ll have a corona? You don’t mind do you Julez honey?”
“Go right ahead. I’ll have a macchiato please.”
“What the fuck is that?”

Rob looked down at his watch.
“Make that two.”
Zac was meant to have joined them fifteen minutes late. Julia squeezed his hand and forced a smile that looked all wrong on her face.

“So you guys together again. That’s sweet. That’ll knock Zac’s socks off.” Julia pulled her hand out from under the table. “You know I never understood Julez – why’d you knock me back .. I mean first Zac, then Rob, then back to Zac.”

Rob’s chair squealed as he pushed back.
“I’m not sitting here and listening to your shit Jason. You know what – I’m sorry you didn’t get to be a big rock star, or movie star and you haven’t managed to find the next big someone -“
“Rob!” Julia reached out and grabbed him on the arm. “This is tough on all of us. Sit down.”

Rob stared down at her and then across to Jason, lowering himself back in his seat looking as if at any moment he would just stalk off.
“Cool it Robbo – I was out of line. I was always pissed that she did everyone in the band except me.”

He reached across the table to shake, but Rob didn’t move.
“Shake his hand,” Julia said, forcing a smile that didn’t suit her face. ‘We’ll drink our coffees-“
“Beer!”
“We’ll drink our drinks by which time Zac will be here.”

They sat in silence until the waitress brought their drinks. Jason took a long swig of the beer – draining almost half of it before he slammed it back down on the table.
“Hair of the dog man. Gotta do it!” He winked at Julia and Rob rolled his eyes. “I gotta say I never thought I’d see us all sitting around shooting the breeze. Hell if it weren’t for you ringing Julia I would never have come along.”

“You Julia?” Rob looked at Julia and then to Jason. “Isn’t this something you sorted out Jason?”
Jason shrugged his shoulders.“Shit no! This is lady luck here’s idea. Get us all together.”
“But you rang me and told me about the Battle of the Bands.”
“Battle of the bands – what the hell are you talking about?” Jason said, picking up his beer, letting it linger on his bottom lip. “Has your brain gone to mush with all the techno shit you do?”

Rob leaned forward. “You rang me a month ago and told me UQ were having a battle of bands reunion.”
“No way man. This is the first time I’m talking to you since the band split.”
“Actually since you were doing stand up down in the Valley.”
“Fuck yeah – I’d forgotten about that.” He took another swig of beer. “I couldn’t care less if I never saw the hairy motherfucker again. He promised he’d take me with him to Sydney when the band split – going to make it big. Fuckwit lied.”
“You knew he was planning on busting the band up?”
“Fuck yeah – he wanted to go to Sydney. Said he’d need a good drummer.”

“Did you steal them?” The chair screech backwards again, followed by Jason’s. “You stole my songs. You had a key to my place? You did it so Zac would take you to Sydney with him. And he doubled dealed you.”
“I didn’t know anything about your fucking songs Robbo. I didn’t steal them.” But neither Rob or Julia were convinced.
“You knew they were good, you knew they were destined to make us famous. All you wanted was to be famous. So you stole my songs.”

The table fell to the side as Jason lurched across the table, grabbing for his shirt.

“Stop it,” Julia yelled, forcing herself between them, where the table had been.
“And as for you. Zac fucked you to break the band up. And you couldn’t wait to spread your legs for him. He was right when he said it would be easy.”

Julia slapped him. “You take that back!” Tears stung her eyes. “It didn’t happen that way.”
“Of course it did.”
“I was drunk.”
“Weren’t you always.”

Rob held Julia back, putting his arms around her.
“Fuck off Jason. You’re a waste of space.”

“Is there a problem here?” Rob turned to face the manager. “It’s all good. He’s just leaving.”
Jason spat on the ground and picked his wallet and mobile up from among the broken crockery and the smashed salt and pepper shakers.

Kate Bush’s Wuthering Height’s soared from Julia’s hand bag, lying on the ground. She broke free from Rob and riffled through to find it. The screen came up with ONE MISSED CALL. ZAC. It beeped and she accessed her message bank. When she stood up, clutching her bag and her mobile she saw Rob handing the manager and fifty dollar bill and picking his iPhone up from the mess on the ground.

“Let’s go,” Rob said. He took her arm firmly and led her out the door, into the cool morning air. She shook free and stood blocking his way.
“It’s not what you think it is.”
“Who called me?”
“A friend of mine. I had to make it look like I wasn’t the one organising it or else you wouldn’t have come.”
“I only came because Jason – whoever – said you were going to be here.” Rob shook his head. “At least it explains why you had no gear in your room last night.”

Julia hooked her arm through his and towed him into the flow of the Mall.
“If I called and said Zac wanted to see you-“
“I wouldn’t have come. Not even for you. He screwed me. I can’t forgive the prick for what he did.”
“You never sued.”
“I had no evidence those songs were mine. I can’t believe Jason stole my songs and gave them to Zac. Explains why he was so damn cagey around me back then.”

They walked on in silence.
“I admit I lied to get you here.”
“And Jason?”
“He’s beside the point. I needed him to make it look like a band reunion. Zac felt bad about lying to him, using him, he wanted to say sorry – but it was you he wanted to see.”
“I don’t understand Julez. Are you saying you’re in contact with Zac?”

Julia looked away.
“You are?”
“I’ve always been in contact with him. He got me my first singing job in London. You’ve got no idea how it was when I got there Rob. His star was rising and -”
"He stole the song I wrote for you. You are Summer Girl. And all these years he's sung it. Made a name for himself with it."

Rob pushed her hand away and started to walk fast. Julia grabbed at him.
“Twenty years with no word from you but all the time you had Zac.”
“I ran away for 20 years and I’m not letting you run away now. This is important.”
“Were you sleeping with him?”
“Last night it didn’t matter to you what happened between Zac and I and now it does.”
“So you did.”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“I’m over this Julez. Go back to London, go back to wherever just get the hell out of my life.”

“He’s dying,” Julia called as Rob strode off. “Zac’s got pancreatic cancer and he’s not going to last the month out.”

Rob stopped but didn’t turn around.
“He was coming this morning to sign the rights of Summer Girl and all the other songs to you. He wanted to do what was right. When he dies you’ll own the copyright of all your songs and all of his … and the royalties that come with it.”
“I don t believe you.”

Julia stuck her hand in her bag and pulled out some folded papers, tapping Rob on the shoulder with them.
“He just brokered a deal with Coke. A multi-million dollar deal.”
“I don’t want his money.”
“You’re money actually.”
“I said I don’t want the money. I don’t need the money.”
“But you want your song back – don’t you.”

“You say he’s dying?”
“They wouldn’t let him out of hospital to come this morning. He wanted to do it in person – but –“
“He sent you as his messenger. Always the go between. Saint Julez of the Arseholes.”
“Don’t be a stubborn bastard. Don’t let your pride get in the way of granting a dying man his last wish.”

Julia pulled a small card from her bag and handed it to Rob.
“Go to him. Go make things right. Then you and I can try and make things right between us."

The prequel to this story is Only My Heart Calling. Decided it was too long to post as the one story.

Unsent Letters: Affogato

Dear John,
It's better here today.

Larissa came over and dragged me out for coffee. You know what Larissa is like - I couldn't say no and she agreed to just walk around the corner. She also "made" me try something new - says it is time to live a bit and I didn't even take offence at that. How can you ever be mad with Larissa?

So I had an affogato - expresso and icecream. Weird and wonderful all at the same time. It made me think of the night we went to the casino for my birthday and you "made" me try a Black Velvet. While coffee and icecream go together (though technically the temperature difference makes it a bit wrong) - I have to remind you that the Guiness and champage did not.

I thought about global warming as I watched the icecream melt. If I can grok the whole icecream melting in my expresso metaphor of global warming - why can't others. We need someone to come down and slurp up all the excess water. But then we'd probably just have a drought and it would be worse than a 6m rise in global sea levels. Guess there's no easy answers.

Larissa found out I'd never had take out coffee before - meaning she "made" me go and get a long black to take away with us. I have to admit I felt just a little bit cool wandering out with the coffees in a carrier - Larissa ordered a caramel latte just so I could carry them all out. Like I was some office wench doing the coffee run. Why I would think being the office wench would be cool I don't know. How is it we never took coffee out? I guess coffee always meant sit in - why would you want to waste good coffee rushing around between point A and point B in life?

We walked around the block, then people watched at the bus stop for a while. Larisa can be so filthy at times. It took forever for the coffee to cool which meant having to listen to more of her comments than I would have otherwise chosen to. She thinks it's funny whenI blush uncontrollably. It must have been the expresso.

The hits of expresso were just what I needed - though now I'm feeling a bit shakey and wired. Remember when we drank five short blacks and then went to see Romeo and Juliet? It feels a little like that - only I didn't return home to discover I'd been wandering around the street with a huge rip up the back of my dress and my bare arse hanging out. Thankfully I was wearing jeans and the seams are pretty sturdy - well at the moment.

Larissa says I need to speak to my folks about money. I don't want to bring it up if they haven't offered. You'd think they'd have offered to help. As if there isn't enough to deal with already. I want to see if there is another option before I ring them for help.

I got out Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness and played the rat in a cage song over and over again. I wanted to feel angry but there's nothing. No sadness, no regret, no guilt - just emptiness. And at night - fear? Maybe I'm not a lost cause if I'm afraid.

Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage.

Do you feel like that rat John? Is it like being in a cage?

I miss you.

Sissy xx

Unsent Letters: The Darkness

Dear John,
It's dark. So dark. They tell me it won't always be like this - but how would they know. They tell me that like night, day finally comes ... but really, what's the point of day. It's just walking death.

I wish I could hear your voice - something tangible, something real to hold onto in the darkness. You'd think I would have grown out of my fear of the dark but it seems more real now than when we were kids.

I'd blame you - but it's not your fault. I'd give anything now for you to be hiding around the corner from the toilet door - ready to spring out and scare the shit out of me.

Well I am scared. More scared than I have ever been.

Are you scared too John?

Sissy xx

Unsent Letters: Dear John

Unsent Letters is a writing exercise I started over at Write Anything. For the next 21 days I will be posting a fictional letter from one character to another.


Dear John,
I can’t help but think that one day it might be ‘one of those letters’ every time I scribble those two words at the beginning of a letter. So ingrained in the cultural vernacular those two words are. Perhaps I should change your name – could you be Johnny – Jon? Jim Jude. I wonder if Jude is a shortening of Judas?

I’m sitting here listening to the Rolling Stones as I write this. Anything to fill the void up with. I can’t stand the silence. I once thought the silence was lonely – now it just feels like a terrible vortex that will suck me in if I let it through the door. So I fill the flat up with noise. Guess it is not terribly nice of me to call the Stones ‘noise’. Guess also that anything turned up loud enough becomes noise?

Is it quiet where you are?

What are you listening to John?

It’s getting late. I should try to get to sleep. I never seem to be able to drift off before the CD ends. If only there was enough money for an iPod and I would have a week’s worth of music at my disposal. Maybe then I would actually sleep.

Hope you are sleeping wherever you are John?

Yours,
Sissy