Relocate Or Farewell?

It was that time yet again.

Goodbye house. Goodbye street. Goodbye school. Goodbye neighbours. Goodbye friends, let’s try and stay in touch (who am I kidding.) Goodbye crazy pigeon guy who screams at the kids cycling by, actually scratch that last one. But, one thing for sure, goodbye love interest.

It’s that time again where we’re relocating, heading away, or as the mother likes to call it, venturing off to a new wilderness. Well, mother, that new wilderness is New York, Manhatten to be more precise, no not upper, downtown, exactly.

(Really thought we had a chance at sticking around this time.)

The man of the house (el padro) has a new job, no idea what it is, not asking. Mainly because he whisked me away from all that’s good in life, but still, not to derail, New York.

I’ve said my farewell’s to all but one, and now I’m sitting back here as the car ventures into the big robust city. Wheels spinning and the hustle bustle of the city awakes in a roar. Already, I know I’m not going to like it here, but hey ho it’s too late.

Anyway, again I’m derailing and spiraling down my own mind tunnel right now, stop it now. I’m here to say, I’m gunna miss you, that’s a fact.

This isn’t the best way, and heck I should of said all this when I could but my bad. I never had a chance to say, I really like you and I don’t know if you do or don’t really like me, but this is my side and I like to think ‘really like’ is the better side of that.

Farewell I guess, we could have been great together but imagine, we can think back on this in 15 years time and go, wow, that could have been something, maybe.

Maybe’s are what guide us, what make us and what break us, but a maybe is good enough for me. So, from here, I’ll be seeing you and farewell.

Maybe not forever.

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If I Were Lonely

Weekly Writing Challenge: Build Your Own

Loneliness is an interesting feeling. It can come and go, but does it truly ever leave you. It clings, wraps it’s cold arms around you and never lets go but perhaps it is wanted. Perhaps we want to feel lonely, isolated, blocked off from the world in which we inhabit.

I’m strolling through these big city streets, the tall towering buildings as they stand above me as if judging my every move. I pass through the people, stepping side to side, we’re dancing. Moving in between. How do I feel alone? How could I ever feel alone in a place surrounded by people, by life. But I do.

I pass them and they don’t notice. They don’t notice my existence, nor their own. Nobody notices each other in these big world’s yet they’re crammed with people to the very brim, squeezing everything they can in. It’s so busy, so full of life that the very life itself pushes against the walls of the towers.

I wonder what I’m doing here, much more suited to a field filled with dreams and outstretching lands but that, that only belongs in a dream where the world has no ends. I open my eyes again. No change. Here I am wandering carelessly through this jungle of people. I stop and I wonder. I wonder on what would life be like if I were lonely?

The Polaroids

Weekly Writing Challenge: Object

Kate sits on her bed. The room is small with a crack in the curtain letting a beautiful golden stream of light through. The duvet on the bed is in a mess align with clothes crumpled up on the floor, various bottles of alcohol all of which are empty and different photos documenting travels. She’s sitting there wearing a baggy jumper, jeans and a pair of worn out trainers next to her. She leans forward holding her head and rubbing her face.

A whisper, a faint eerie noise from the corridor has been heard from Kate as her head shoots up in surprise but nobodies there. She shuffles over to the bedroom door with it being half open. She sticks her head out, looking side to side, nothing.

Sitting back down Kate takes a deep breath. She reaches into her bedroom draw finding a small stack of polaroid photos. Also in the draw is a small bottle of vodka, half open and resting next to the polaroid. Kate reaches for the polaroids, pausing for a second then reaching for the bottle as well. 

She begins flicking through the photos one by one all are slightly faded. Kate smiles as she sees the pictures of London followed by pictures from Paris. The Eiffel Tower standing tall in the background followed by a mx of close up disorientated images then a beautiful picture of the water in Venice. The last few photos are of New York with a young woman, a similar age to Kate. The first is against the backdrop of Times Square with ‘Best friends’ scribbled in the bottom of the polaroid. Kate smiles but unscrews the bottle and starts drinking the vodka in sips. She flicks through more images which seem like a trail through New York through the streets to Central Park then to the Statue of Liberty and Manhattan ending in the Brooklyn Bridge. The final few polaroids are a new years party with ‘NYE 2009’ scrawled on the bottom. Kate is now taking big swigs of the vodka. She drops all the polaroid on the floor with the last one landing right in front of her. 

Kate leans forward holding her head with the bottle still in hand. She leans back then lies down on the bed drinking the vodka. She hears the whisper again from the corridor. 

 

 

The above is an elaborated extract from a screenplay I wrote and recently directed. I’m extremely excited to be working on this and might put the full script/story online at some point or more elaborated extracts. The film is currently in production and shall be released via Vimeo and the ‘Polaroid’ website (currently being made) in the coming months.

Pool Of Water

Weekly Writing Challenge:

ImageFloating. Peaceful. Silence. Click. These are the events. I’m floating here with the beach behind me and a small tropical island in front of me just staring at it as if it’ll do something and save me somehow but it won’t

Dads home away from home and its meant to be a holiday. Yeah its tropical and beautiful but I’m lonely, theres nobody here. He’s off doing some business or something, I don’t divulge. The water feels cold but the sun is so bright and hot. It’s getting brighter now. It rests at the mid point in the sky. Must be at least 1pm.

I’m so still and my breaths grow slower as I ease into the transition. I close my eyes and take a think. What do I miss. What have I achieved. I think of that girl. The girl from the party that night who stood blankly ignoring everyone. It wasn’t a great party but people seemed to be enjoying themselves as the fireworks exploded in the background. I spoke to her and I don’t know, I thought we hit it off. Maybe we didn’t. But I wish we had. People are only after one thing or another and usually its the other.

I think back to my best friend in high school or that kid I called best friend. He left. As soon as something better came along he couldn’t get away faster “please leave via all fire exits in an emergency to your left and right.” Why, what did I do? If you want to be away that fast then why not just parachute from the plain better yet I’ll parachute and forget the chute?

My mother left. She couldn’t deal with her other halves deals. Pay someone here another guy there, what is this? I don’t know what he did but I do now. Too bad I’m the one who has to suffer, wonder what he’ll think. Will he care? Will he rescue me? I didn’t want any of this.

The water gets thicker and its starting to drag me down. In front of me it starts turning a thick red and I re live the click as it pulls back and bang, the release. Red water.

I don’t know how I got here. I was sitting on the beach sipping my cool cola reading a F.Scott Fitzgerald novel when I felt the need to stand and take in the atmosphere. I loved that island in front even when I was a kid. All I wanted to do was travel out there and explore. Like some adventurer. This one time I tried building a raft, nobody would help me. Just some logs tied together with string but it didn’t make it far. I just wanted to get away.

Click. Bang. That last little visual snapshot of the island. At least I got a good view. Then I get shoved into the water for my final rest. So who will miss me? What will people think? Will anyone even notice? I play these thoughts like a vinyl on a loop as it starts back to the beginning again. Drifting. Getting pulled into the water. I’m gone. This is it.

The New Year From A Balcony

Weekly Writing Challenge: Leave Your Shoes at the Door

 

Tick, tick, tick. I’m at this party, drink in hand, lean against the wall minding my own business. I don’t know you and I don’t wanna know you. I stand silently watching everyone as they stand idly chatting to one another waiting for that big zero. Yeah it’s new year and we’re all just passing the time till the countdown. That moment everyone shouts “10, 9, 8” Jesus. Give it a brake. Imagine something drastic happening at zero. Boom. A scene is caused.

People pass me by. A girl. Must be mid 20’s just looks me from the bottom to the top, not in a nice way. Yeah I’m wearing some tatty shoes I pulled from the cupboard from 4 years ago. Yes I’m wearing jeans. Yes I’m wearing double denim. Boom, boom the music plays out. The DJ scratches again. Hip-hop banging. Why’s it always hip-hop? Why do we never have some folk music playing whilst everyone does an Irish jig?

It’s an ugly apartment complex. Down 7th Avenue in West Village. New York city. It’s an alright location but just the apartment. Ugly walls, paintings and photos decorating the wall but it’s all displayed like a museum. “You can look but don’t touch” is what I imagine you could read under every image. A couple stand there staring at the artwork pretending to know what it’s all about “Yes the way the strokes of the brush are, have created an impressionists view of what the world really means” is what I imagine they’re saying. The view of the world. What does it really mean? I can never really tell what it’s all about until that final moment. That final moment of realisation.

Here comes another guy again. “Hey I was just over there and our eyes kinda caught like some….” he says but I just cut him off with a slurp of my drink “I’m waiting for a friend. SO if you don’t mind” I nudge him away. I’m not waiting for a friend. I’m not here with anyone.

There goes the host of the party, I think. Can’t be sure. All I know is she seems to have more knowledge on the ‘fine artwork’ than everybody else does that and she looks like she could stand against the apartment walls and just blend in. She’s ushering the couple onto another piece. A photograph. It’s a black and white one. Attracts the eyes with its contrast of the world. Typical New York setting. Some big buildings with the Brooklyn Bridge to the left. “So heres the typical photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge. Nothing really new here but I like the way it makes you contemplate what life is actually all about and why we’re here.” Is what I imagine her saying to the couple. It’s not. It’s a photo of a well known bridge in New York. Theres no special meaning to it.

The countdown. A firework in the distance. Explosion. A bit early I guess. NINE, they all scream. EIGHT, they get louder. I drown it out. Walking over to the balcony to get a less bland view instead of some obscure inside apartment building of what a boring persons mind must be trying to fight the interesting. I stare at the balcony then the New York skyline. FIVE, it catches my ears again. I stand on the balcony rails. FOUR, they’re building this up now. BANG, BANG the fireworks in the background. THREE. Explosions, colour in the black sky. TWO. I close my eyes now letting the breeze, cold air take me. ONE. Nearly there. They all scream at once but I can’t hear them anymore. I just take a step forward into the abyss. Open the eyes, flashes of colours, screaming.

Theres no special meaning because sometimes life just doesn’t work like that.

She’s Still Telling Him What To Do (A Short Lunch: Day 5)

Weekly Writing Challenge: Lunch Posts

I’m here again. It feels like a loop. Back where I began my week. ‘The Best Sandwich’s Around’ reads above the cafe. It’s quiet.

I sit down in my usual spot and take the usual gaze around. Usual. Sip the coffee and I spot that couple. She’s still telling him what to do. He’s still nodding in agreement. Theres a sense of a non-caring expression which echoes upon his face.

I stare at my coffee and swirl it around in it’s cup. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten lunch all week.

On My Desk By Monday (A Short Lunch: Day 4)

Weekly Writing Challenge: Lunch Posts

 

It feels like a Monday. We all gather as a collective in the queue. Busier than usual as people push and shove as if like school children. I hear in the distance some arguing “Why did you get me this? You know I hate it.” I turn to see the commotion. It’s some elderly couple who hate but love each other. There out of place here as.

Suits fill the cafe today. Bash of the briefcase here. A nudge of the elbow there. All are like robots with a phone attached to their heads. Chatting, chatting down the line. “I want it on my desk by Monday. Do you hear me? Monday!” One shouts as if directly into my ear. Is it not Monday?