gair rhydd: Prose

The Greatest Gift

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s llamas,” remarked Henry, making a comment that would bear no further relevance to the rest of the story.

The bacon hisses as it hits the fat bubbling in the frying pan; as the smell wafts over I struggle to hold back the rising surge of nausea. Throat burning, I glance around the cafe: mauve paint, sterile lightning – all of which does little to improve my mood. The cafe had been selected purely due to its lack of custom. My only companions are a waxwork waitress, a dishevelled young girl and her dead-eyed boyfriend. Trying to distract myself from my imploding skull I begin systemically shredding the empty sugar packets that lay scattered across the table.

Playgrounds

I do not know what playgrounds are for. For a short while we throw our bodies around them. Not as ourselves, but as spacemen, or thieves. Climbing frames are distant worlds, and pits of sand are bounteous lairs. We hide in a place and wait to be found, or we chase and chase until our lungs or our legs give out. We can kid ourselves for a short while, into wanting it to last for all of time. But when the bell rings we have no where to run for the fence posts that stab into the ground and stand tall. Inside them we can pretend anything we like is possible. Make-believe is a game that doesn’t end when you are young. But the world I see – a zoetrope against the wooden slats – stands still when I stop running. So I don’t.

Rebecca

The rutted track was infiltrated with jutting mounds of flaky earth, making us trip and scramble up the diminishing path. Like serpents we weaved in between the spindly branches, taking the hands of the bowing trees and grabbing at sparse tufts of grass. Blades tore off into our palms and propelled out of the creases of our skin like papery butterfly wings, fluttering and the fading, setting us back in our progress. Dry earth crept beneath our nails and a smell of heavy dustiness permeated our fingers, spreading to our faces as we wiped away lingering beads of sweat. At regular intervals, we stopped to pull ourselves up earthy ledges, teetering over the edge as our legs dangled, the steep hill falling away beneath us. Rebecca held out her delicate hand every time, crouching over me, her wispy blonde hair falling like ribbons and stroking her knees. I looked up at the deep set, milky-blue eyes and thin, nipped face, each exquisite detail ingrained in my memory, integral to my childhood. Her eyebrow arched in a dare and her fingers wiggled in my direction,

The Beauty of Solitude

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Gracefully, but with all your heart, you gleefully swirl and let your body flow to the rhythm; the spotlight on you, the music – just as you like it. The stage is all yours and only yours, but hold on, let’s turn to the other half of this performance and discover the audience. Elevating comfort levels with a dose of encouragement, an invigorating performance for the greatest of audiences – you!

The Hyena of Harar

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The truth can be wrung out of us only by some cruel, little, awful catastrophe.

Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim

Rimbaud lived here. Tomorrow, I shall take you to his house. A little culture! For now, my friend, have another drink. You’re quite sure there’s no wedding you should be attending? Ha! I apologize. I like to… self-mythologize, I have a thoroughly European taste for it. Under this white suit lies a hoary mass, a crazed Romantic heart…pure feeling, you know! Or perhaps just the memory of feeling…its old bones bleached and picked clean. We are, of course, in the right place. This is the land of carrion and its coarse clientele. Amidst all this red dust, the open drains, the filth, I am a tailored, crisp suit, a deftly angled hat…a shawl, a spectre…a whitened sepulchre! There is nothing quite so white as a bone lying in the sun. It gleams.

Looking at Streetlights from the Top of a Hill

Jenna

She is a miracle. My miracle. Not his. I am the Virgin Mary. This is my only child. A star.

Actually, it feels like there is a lead weight plumb line that pulls down my spine and gently drags me down. I’m carrying a butcher’s sack that feeds off me. Like my own private baby Kangaroo or something. I feel well lonely, which is funny seeing as in a way I’m never alone anymore. I’m sure soon if I don’t do something it’s gonna be able to remind me when it kicks out against me with a squirming little worm foot.

The Martyrdom of Sister MacAllistair (A Parable)

She did love Jesus. As much as a woman, who is not a woman, can love a man, who is not a man. She loved Jesus. Jesus was a husband to her as to any woman. Jesus was her creed. She needed him and he would come to her. In the night he would come to her. And she would rejoice, ‘Allelujah!’ as he ministered to her.

The Mouth of the Farset

Grief vomits out of this city like a bugged up drunk.

The only things that surprise are the superficial mourning and the elongated celebration that follow. They don’t paint the town red though.

Just a handbag

Security, necessity, accessory; I follow faded footsteps and cradle treasured goods like forgotten pirates’ gold. I guard the sorry secrets of my lonely little girl, grown old only in years. Whispers of her soul cry out from buried belongings. I can count her fortune, sing all her favourite songs and name the friends she still wants. She hides herself in me; in all the private parcels of her heart.

My Grandpa Died Today

The following is an extract from my travel journal about my time volunteering in an orphanage in the Caribbean.

My grandpa died today. My Grandpa who thought that everything I did was marvellous. Who cooked for me even after he’d stopped cooking for himself. Who counted to six missing out five, and would still sing me nursery rhymes. My Grandpa who took two short shuffles when he saw me like he couldn’t believe his eyes and would doze of is his chair by the window humming Irish classics. He wore a suit every single day, and ladies slippers and his lips tasted of late night whiskies. He had been a prisoner of war, eaten a greyhound, survived TB, and owned the first car in the street. Yet somehow my dad was on the phone telling me that he wasn’t indestructible after all. It was twenty past four, and I knew as soon as I heard his voice, and not mum’s, that something awful had happened. He said ‘you’re grandfather passed away’. Then he gave the phone to mummy and she listed all the reasons that she’s glad that he’s at peace. But everything about the way she said it told me all the reasons she can’t believe he’s gone. I am a world away, washing wares, bathing babies and singing reggae songs under the stars with daughters of girls younger than me. I should have been there, with them, kissing my grandpa goodbye. Mum said that she would contact Peter and ask him to pick me up, so at least I wouldn’t have to cry the night away where orphaned babes were trying to sleep.

Ballet Shoes

Lettie burst into the kitchen, beaming at her dad. She looked like she belonged on the top of a Christmas tree. A tacky tiara with plastic gems cuddled her candy-cane curls. A smudge of scarlet stained her dimpled cheeks, and the bow of her lip lay lost under layers of Kiss Me Quick gloss. Crumbs of blue powder that she had smeared up to her eyebrows coloured the tip of her chubbiest finger. She put it in her mouth and sucked it spotless. Her daddy winced, then laughed, half shaking his head. She flittered around the room, blowing kisses to fairies. Gliding and spinning with grace, she swooped past him, then settled by her Barbies and began to brush their hair. She tugged and twisted and changed their dresses, but never once took her eyes off her father; sat so still and stiff and silent on that hard kitchen chair. She absorbed every inch of him; so unfamiliar and foreign in that stale grey suit, baggy and creased in quarters. He shuffled, coiling his rough hands into empty pockets. He thought it strange that her leotard pinched at the chest, and the way the ribbons in her hair so perfectly matched her skirt. Sequins swirled in spirals around her ankles, glistening in the soft light. Aware of his eyes on her, Lettie arched her foot in a ballerina pose, thirsty for his admiration. The petal pink pumps danced in circles, and she smiled shyly at her father as he traced their pattern in the carpet.

Gair Rhydd

Creative Writing - Prose