FAG BREAKS

They’re annoying, not setting up proper processes to study this thing, ridiculous; you’d think they’re fresh out of university – oh fuck they are!  No respect for experience.  I’m going for a fag.

The warm spot next to the air conditioning fans is free.  The sun doesn’t penetrate this courtyard, the buildings are too tall.  They’ve done their best with it, little tables, flower pots, shelters ... Why is someone talking to me?

“The cold’s your fault.  You always wear trousers, today you’re wearing a skirt.  I’m not complainin’, nice pair o’ pins you got bein’ so tall.  ‘Ow tall are you love?”
Typically my luck, it’s a short arse with a wrinkled face, toting on a cigar.  I will stub my fag out, put my social face on and join Lottie in the canteen.

“Lottie, this weird guy in the courtyard blamed the cold on me; he noticed what I was wearing.”

“I’m not surprised, you’re wearing a skirt.  It looks nice.”
“He was creepy.”
“Don’t let him put you off your fags.  We can’t live in a world where we let guys intimidate us.”
Lottie’s cool, she says I’d be unbearably grumpy if I tried to give up smoking and she’s right.  I must go and continue development work; it’s getting to a vital stage.

Unpleasant afternoon, they’re not hearing my ideas, I need a promotion to Level 7, they’d listen then.  I keep getting these chest infections though and sick days ruin my chances ...  Need a fag.  Oh God, that guy is there again!

“The tall blonde bombshell’s back!” he’s saying.
Talk about inappropriate.  “Who are you?”  I demand.
“I’m Lucio, your guardian angel,” he replies with a sickly smile.

Every time I take a fag break, he’s there.  Lottie says ignore him and cheers me up by buying me a packet of ciggies.  I make the mistake of telling him, he says if she’s a proper friend she won’t encourage me.  He’s ugly!  Not that I’m shallow, but his skin is yellow, like he has sclerosis.  I mustn’t talk to him, that’ll give him the hint.  It’s not like I speak much anyway.

It’s a week since that weirdo first approached me.  Today (my birthday) I go for a fag and he’s decorated the courtyard with daffodils.  “It’s because you remind me of spring, love,” he says, staring at me all googly eyed.

It’s not just about him and his strange, constant presence, but the chest infections too.  This is my last fag break, I’m not smoking anymore.

“But Evelyn,” says Lottie, when I go to the canteen, “you can’t let a weird man put you off.  You love smoking!”

“I’m giving up,” I answer, “once I make up my mind that’s it.”

At the end of that day Lottie finds Lucio in the Courtyard.

“Some you win, some you lose, love,” he sympathises, “you tried to keep her smoking.  What can I say?  We fight for different sides, good and evil, but we can still respect each other.  Evelyn’s my best ever save, brilliant mind!  She’ll be healthy now, more working days, more productivity, bound to get that promotion.  She’ll change the world.”
Lottie sighs, glancing upwards where the company sign catches the sun – ‘Pan Global Military Solutions’ – “Yes,” she concedes, “she certainly will.”

ROSESSSZZZ

Everyone was discussing Valentine’s plans, the predictable couple’s circuit - fixed price menu, followed by drinks, then ... actually no-one mentioned that.  Down the corridor, in the cleaner’s cupboard a more serious discussion occurred.
“I’ll take her out, she’ll eat her body weight in steak, drink a bottle of wine and sleep, fat cow.  I’ll come to you then,” Pat said.
“That’d be sooo good,” Kim, looked at him from wide hazel eyes, “if you can ...”
He brushed her blonde hair back and kissed her; “’Course I can,” he muttered.
Desire overtook them.  He pulled her tights and briefs down and pushed her against the wall, unzipping.
“Oh, Pat,” she gasped as he thrust inside her.
The door opened and the cleaner looked in.
“Get out!” shouted Pat roughly.
“Oh God!” Kim cried as the door slammed shut.
“I’ll talk to her,” grunted Pat.

That conversation was short; “Tell anyone and it’s job centre time.”

The cleaner stared downwards, brown eyes sad.
“Do you understand?” he checked.
“I won’t say anything.  True love is beautiful.  You should celebrate.”
“We will.”
She hesitated, then handed him a card; “diffirT sells beautiful roses.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Late that night, Kim’s doorbell rang, she answered dressed in mini skirt and top.  Pat held a huge bunch of red roses.  Kim gasped, the flowers were beautiful; crimson, luscious, smooth stemmed.  “They’re amazing!” she cried, “let me put them in water!”

She filled the vase in her bedroom, dashed in plant food and put the blooms in, arranging them lovingly.
Pat watched her; “I thought you only had eyes for me!”
She turned immediately and he swept her into his arms; “Fucking tedious evening,” he muttered, “so glad I’m here.”
In bed they tore at each others’ clothes, both aware of the beautiful rose smell.  It became over-powering, a heady scent that made them more aroused.  Pat was hypnotised by Kim’s eyes, Kim ground her hips desperately against him, moaning.  It was the best it had been and they’d barely started.  She guided him inside her, bucking against him insistently, he held her down and moved into her hard; “I can’t take my eyes off you!” he groaned.

Unseen the roses grew taller, the stems so long the blooms touched the ceiling.  The vase crashed to the floor, but the couple were too busy copulating to care.  Kim experienced a most intense orgasm and screamed.  Pat was in that moment of heaven when he knew he was going to let go, when; “Fuck, what’s that!” he cried.

It happened in seconds, rope like tendrils wrapped round their bodies, tying them together.
“What is it?” Kim cried, unable to move the binds were so tight.  She was aware of something in her face, a rose.  She looked down their bodies.  Their legs were tethered together by long green stems, so were their hips and their arms.
“What the fuck’s going on?” shouted Pat, “Call the Police!”
“No-one will hear.  The neighbours are away.”
“If this is a fucking joke, it’s not fucking funny!”
“Pat, I can feel something, my God!”
Those smooth stems had been for show; now thorns appeared, pushing through from inside the stems and into flesh, gradually burrowing deeper as the couple screamed in agony.  The wounds were shallow; it would take ages for them to bleed to death, but no-one would find them for days anyway.

THE RATTLIN' DOOR

Since I’ve left my home and come here, I haven’t left my room – unless necessary.  It’s secure from the world, just me, poetry, literature, a haven.  Although ... I think I’m supposed to be waiting for something and I’m not sure what.  This situation I’m in is strange and I don’t know what the rules are.  My smart phone is on the bed, but do I text or will I be aloof and not say anything all day?  How do I play?

At exactly 5am every morning, my door rattles and I wake with a start.  The room isn’t safe anymore, I block any speculation or thought, I cover my head with the pillow and eventually it stops.  I get up and go to work.

Valentine’s Day finds me off sick.  I like to believe flu, but it could be malfunction of social face.  I find myself dozing, when the door starts that menacing rattling at exactly 5pm, unscheduled, unexpected, twice as unnerving.  Because it’s not the usual hour, it occurs to me to wonder what could be there.  I stir and there’s a bang, like something really powerful hit the panels – could it be hoofs?  One of D.H. Lawrence’s horses from the Rainbow?  Oh the power of sexual desire and what it can be mistaken for!  I wrap the duvet around me tightly, feverish, excited, lusty.

Rattle, thud and a snide whisper in my brain, do we mean it when we say all those I love yous or are we just clinging to rocks in a storm?  It maybe Ted Hughes’ Thought Fox, leading me down another pointless avenue of enquiry.  If I follow I’ll end up with Sylvia Plath’s mushrooms in my brain and well, she couldn’t face Valentine’s Day, could she?  Action is required here; all I need to focus on is the fact I’ll be over this sickness and back at work at 6.30am tomorrow.

Then I wonder and I fear, more than anything, that I’ll hear the sliver of feathers and my visitor will be some grim and ghastly raven, come to haunt me with what I’ve lost and should’ve held onto ... nevermore, nevermore can I go back ... too scary, too scary!

Finally I hear a human voice - my name is called.  The door crashes open, the lock is broken and you’re standing there with a Valentine’s card and a bunch of red roses; “Why the hell haven’t you texted all week?  Why won’t you let me in?”

Giddy with relief, I sit up and perform the smile that won’t answer any questions; “Sorry, love, I thought it was the God Awful Truth come knocking.”

THE ARTISTS' COMMUNE

The office was too boring for their artistic temperaments; so musicians Nina and Wilf, writer Maddie, sculptor Angus and film maker Gigi found a remote, converted barn and set up a commune.  There were four rooms; bathroom and kitchen downstairs, living room and communal sleeping quarters in the high hayloft.  They’d got on well at work, so believed that living together in cramped conditions would be fine.  Angus made the kitchen his studio, the communal sleeping quarters were Maddie’s and Nina and Wilf set up keyboard and drums in the living room.  Gigi started filming.

The day the wine ran out, Angus appeared in the living room; “Guys, come and look.”  He’d been in the kitchen, forbidding entry, they’d had to order takeaway with the last money.  They rushed through to see what Angus was going to sell to keep them in red wine and pizza.  There was a large, expressionless duck on the floor, restricting access to the cupboards. 

“Angus,” Wilf asked, “where’s the oven?”
“It’s irony, usually you cook duck, but I’ve destroyed the oven to make a duck from its metal.  It’s one for the Turner Prize.”
Gigi’s camera captured Wilf’s horrified expression, no-one would buy that soulless duck and there’d be no more hot food.

They lived on cold tinned beans and sausages.  One night, Gigi filmed as Wilf and Nina tried to make music together, but Nina’s keyboard sounded like angry bees and she glared at Wilf from narrowed eyes; “You’ve lost your rhythm.”

“What?”
Maddie came storming in; “I’m trying to sleep!”
“So you can wake us with the fucking tap-tap of your laptop while you produce drivelling doggerel at stupid-o-clock!” shouted Wilf who was a late sleeper.
“I do my best writing at 6am, I’m a lark,” Maddie replied.
Bashing noises came from downstairs, the barn shook, no-one took any notice.
“Nina, what do you mean I’ve lost my rhythm?” Wilf demanded, voice hysterical, stomach so empty it hurt.
Nina having made adjustments to her keyboard, began to play, the sound was chalk across a blackboard.
Maddie put her fingers in her ears.
“Nina!” Wilf yelled.
“Wish we all could die, wish we all could die,” Nina chanted into the microphone.
Wilf went to the cupboard where the last of his Scotch was waiting – only it wasn’t.
“Where’s my fucking booze?” he cried, as there was another huge bang from downstairs, causing the barn to reel.
Maddie held up the empty bottle she’d been clasping behind her back, admitting; “I can’t write without alcohol and thought you wouldn’t mind.”
Wilf had been woken early, was hungry, his whisky was gone and his rhythm lost; violently he grabbed Maddie’s throat.  Gigi continued to film, so Nina obligingly played sinister music to add a backdrop.  Another crash reverberated around them as Maddie smashed the bottle against Wilf’s head.  “Miserly bastard!” she screamed.
He staggered, blood pouring from his temple. “Talentless, thieving bitch!”
Angus called from downstairs; “You guys, I’ve just knocked down the wall between the kitchen and bathroom, so I can make a swan out of stone.”
Gigi looked round her lens; “That’s a load bearing wall.”
Her camera caught it all, Nina clinging to her keyboard while she fell with the masonry, Maddie and Wilf in a murderous embrace as they too plummeted with the collapsing floor.  Gigi clung one handed to a picture on the foundation-less wall that wouldn’t hold much longer.  Grimly she turned her camera to herself and said; “Should’ve stayed in the office.”

KILLINGSOMETIME

Where the hell are you?  I keep returning here, looking over the embankment, recalling the precious memories, but you never come.  I just don’t get it.  Those were moments of sheer joy and ecstasy that we shared here beside the railway.  Remember sweetheart, how turned on we got?

I can see your eyes now, hazed over with fear or excitement as we dragged his struggling body down to the line.  It was me who had the knife, so I made the first blow, through his stomach, the blood spilling over my hands, warm and fresh.  Then I reached into his body and pulled out a handful of his guts.  We could see the horror in his eyes as he saw his own innards being dragged out of him.  I so wanted it to last longer, but you muttered something about him suffering and put your hands round his throat, he stopped breathing in seconds.  Never mind, it was our first time killing together, maybe on the next occasion we can drag it out a bit.

I recall admiring your strength as you threw his lifeless body onto the tracks, then we lay concealed in the long grass, waiting for the train to come and cut him to pieces.  I was still holding the knife when I begged you to fuck me and you did good and proper, where his blood had spilled and didn’t we get covered in it?  Loved the feel of blood on my naked skin, so primeval, how I laughed.  You weren’t into it so much, I think you vomited afterwards.

I don’t understand why you don’t call or text and so I come here.  I keep hoping like any decent murderer you’ll return to the scene of the crime.  On the embankment, you feel so close to me.  I miss you so much.  It was an amazing first date, but I’ve noticed that for some reason you’ve closed your account on the site - where I first suggested that we kill sometime together.