Chasing Tails: short story

Through a crack in the curtains (12:33pm)

She woke up in a sweat. The bedcovers twisted around her in a knot of sleep, like every morning. Every night was an ordeal. Her dreams were bloodied with anxiety; awkward scenes with past lovers, public shame and the losing of keys. Her jaw ached from clenching. It was the drugs, she thought. She had to blame something for ailments which spring up so uninvited; they could not be organic, surely. 

It took her back to childhood, when she dreaded night time ferociously. She would lie in bed with the light on, close her eyes, and wait for it to come. The shutting of eyelids switched on a projector, a slideshow of shadows who chased her into the night, past nine o’clock and all hope of daylight. Every night her eyes would close, heavy as sand, forced to meet the projector and its characters. The dread chimed with each tick of the clock. She had no choice but to creep downstairs and climb into her mother’s bed. Warm arms, maternal armour. When morning came she was saved. Even the weak light of winter granted her freedom, the slight hint of blueness meant there was a whole day ahead, only the world and its own snapshot of reality to observe. There was less fear when daylight came with its transparency. 

There she lay, older now, but still afraid. It was half past twelve, she had overslept. She kicked off the duvet which was heavy and stifling, and tore off her t-shirt, now soggy with sweat. The room was so still and so quiet. She looked down at the cage of her ribbed sternum heaving up and down, rapid with her heart. Closing her eyes, she replayed her dream.

I am in a house and we all live there in the house, familiar people, friends and some that I haven’t seen in ages but it feels like we’re living in a commune sort of thing, communal living, it’s a big house in a marshland with trees all around, it’s the landscape that I always go to in dreams, a vast stark bleak one, there is danger in the air, there is a house opposite ours, an evil man lives there, we are banned from going in there but one day someone needs some sugar so we sneak in and at first it’s fun, we look around the cupboards and giggle, but then there’s a noise and he’s almost back, we escape but the dread---

Paralysed by a danger always slightly out of reach. And now it was time to get up and out of this nest which held her captive. One glance around the room confirmed her suspicions of last night. She was in His room, again. She had said never again but she had lied. Her shoes were by the door, black boots marking where her consciousness had stopped at the threshold, leaving her body to bask in His bed. A slither of her dream remained above her, a wretched halo buzzing with aftertaste. 

The room smelt neglected, she had to leave. She dressed with shaking limbs. Outside, out of the door which creaked with complaint, the air fell sharp on her face, and the ground steadied her like a paperweight. The street was empty, strange, she thought, for a Saturday. Or was it a Saturday? Names of days and windows of time had lost their potency. As she walked, something faint gnawed at her, an appointment, a place to be. She glanced once or twice up at the sky, the sun’s misty glow, and thought of the days she had missed, all the fluctuating light which had slipped past her. She could not remember. 

Remember what?

With a mind far removed from the soles of her feet, she turned left at the crossroads, and walked down a lane which constantly curved to the right, as if you would end up where you began. Gradually the houses became taller, white-washed, more contained. There were bushes and gates outside each one, guarding against curious eyes. After a while, she stopped by a building, huge and square, and peeped in through the cracks of the gate. She could see through the windows only slightly, the dull sunlight had created a gauze. Figures moved, shadows danced, her eyes blinked and she lifted the latch and moved towards the door, crunching the gravel as she walked. How noisy it sounded crackling beneath her, as if the volume had been turned up. 

Sleep- my eyes so tired so restless I must remember to--- before I lie down before I close everything Dr. Sandson Dr. Sandson Dr. Sand---

There she lay, legs spilt in front of her, on the smooth slate porch. Her head bent down into her lap. She had collapsed in front of the building, underneath a plaque which read ‘Sandson Health Centre: We remember when you forget.’ It shone and loomed in the grapefruit sun. The sleeping girl snored and remained unseen. 

*

From the desk-lamp (2:07pm)

You remembered.

Did I?

Yes, you’re here aren’t you?

Am I?

Yes. Tell me about your dreams.

I can’t remember.

Tell me. Try.

I think I remember one image and I chase its tail but it runs so far.

What image do you have in mind?

A house.

Good. How does this house make you feel?

I feel dread. I don’t want to be here.

Here?

There. I don’t want to be there. It’s a bad place. 

Why? 

The man.

Tell me about him.

I don’t know. It’s the idea of him which scares me, not his body.

Good, good...

I can feel it now- that wrench- in my chest. It must be bad for my heart. Do you think?

We all know psychological ailments manifest themselves physically.

Yes, that’s what I thought.

Did you remember to take your pills?

I don’t know. I can’t remember.

I will up your dose. This is crucial. Notice any unusual side effects?

I don’t know. I can’t tell what’s unusual any more.

Good.

*

The fields dip and dive in the afternoon sun, sheep bleat faintly amongst the curves, and I hold your hand as you squeeze me like a lemon. It’s windy but I don’t mind. My face is numb and my ears ache but suddenly it’s all opened up and I can see again. As something sparkles in the air you come close.

Come, come.
I’m here.
Come with me.
To where?
Somewhere, anywhere.
I’m here.

Your voice sounds static and thick: jam falling in slow motion, sticking. I think of the snail that lives in my ear that I saw in a children’s science book once, and how it vibrates. It’s windy and I shiver. 

We must remember to- must remember-

The sun and clouds intertwine until they bleed into each other, orange and violent, I stick my tongue out to taste it but it shatters into crystals. I try to pick them up and you disappear, and I am left crouched down picking up sherbet. 

*

Out of a flickering strip light (5.14pm)

You made it then? Didn’t expect you to turn up.

No? Well I did.

Yeah, alright. Sit down then. Shall I get us a coffee?

Yeah. Thanks.

She fiddled with sugar packets as she watched Her walk up to the till. The coffee makers made whirring sounds, like time machines. She would not be surprised. It felt like the 1950s with the radio on in the background, music as audible as an afterthought. At the back of the mind but not solid. It felt like the 1950s inasmuch that she was not familiar with this moment, or the lightness in her bones. They felt hollow like a bird’s. There was a greyness to the day which screamed out for colour TV. 

Here you go, I remembered how you like it. 

Three sugars?
 
Yep. And a drop of milk.

I’m impressed.

Where have you been?

I don’t know.

You look a mess.

Thanks.

No, I mean, I’m worried about you. You look skinny. I can tell you’ve been back at His. 

She looked at her friend without knowing She was her friend. The woman who sat opposite was an imprint in her mind, like the curves on the flesh of her thumb, permanent but faint. She studied her face with a removed curiosity. She looked worn and empty, perhaps she was mirroring Her. She too felt worn, an empty sack, devoid.

Babe? Did you hear me? I’m worried. First you don’t call me then you don’t answer my calls, then you become all everyone talks about. Every day someone asks me where you are. You’re missed, you know. What’s going on?

The question mark hung dead.

Are you sick?

No. I don’t know. Maybe.

Are you sleeping?

I think so. I keep getting these dreams. They feel so real.

So?

It’s just...

She held her mug and felt the coffee inside vibrating with her nerves. The room was full of people, tightly bound to each other with conversation and ease, carrying on. They did not know about the danger on the other side, the gulping depths an inch away from daylight. What kept them so happy? Were they blessed with not knowing? It was the only thing she was certain of, she felt it rumbling in her stomach and coursing through her eye sockets. Knowing nothing, feeling it all.

I have to go. My shift starts at six. Have you got a phone?

No, I lost it. 

Well, I don’t know what to say. Are you coming to Sal’s?

When?

It’s her birthday tomorrow. Please come. So I know that you’re safe.

Okay.

She leaned her cheek upwards to receive Her kiss. 

*

From a streetlamp (8.59pm)

She was back at His door step, at the inch that bridges one side to the next. She knocked and felt the hollow sound. The door opened and she stepped in, following Him up the stairs with reluctance, but at the same time an apathy which held her by the the wrist and dragged her into murky moments such as this. The flat was full of smoke and week-old debris, scattered in piles like a modern art piece. There was a body on the sofa, arms covering the face, hiding in sleep. 

Come upstairs. It’s a shit hole down here.

She nodded. Without care or calculation she followed Him up the second flight of stairs, watching the creases of his jeans and breathing in the stale Fate in which she had been snared. His bedroom was just as she had left it. He had not tidied, why should He? He was immune to domestics. They say a tidy room makes for a tidy mind. His was mess.

Take them off. All of them.

She said nothing as she undressed. The light was cold and waning, lighting up her body with a yawn. She took off her t-shirt and jeans, stepped out of her underwear, watched as they fell. Her clothes lay on the floor like a bonfire waiting to be lit and she the witch to be burned. When she was naked she turned her back to Him and fell face down on to the bed, spreading her legs to the sound of His belt buckle crashing to the floor. 

*

Her mother kissed her forehead.

Remember, they’re only bad dreams. They won’t hurt you.

And the tears had soaked her pillow, made her hair stick to her face. 

Remember, this bed will keep you safe, it is like a ship which carries you to the next day, through the wild sea of sleep, until you are washed ashore.

Still Life: an interior monologue

Thank God, a break, a click in the back...a long...stretch, mmm. I long for a breath of fresh air but I am met with stale paint fumes and dust. What is it with artists and mess? Do we think we can get away with it? 

‘Do you want tea?’

Tea, of course I want tea, my poor dry mouth. Yes, Joey. Thanks, Joey. He looks disheveled as he walks to the kitchen. From the back, he could still be that same fresh-faced whirlwind I met decades ago. Still wearing that patchwork jacket we picked up in Camden Market, still with that awful hair, long and straw-like, unable to keep still. 

‘Sugar?’

Oh Jesus, why does he have to ask every time?

‘Yes Joe, two! I should get it tattooed to my bloody forehead so you won’t have to ask again!’

He always has been up in the clouds. The Free Spirit, The Political Activist, The Dope Smoker, The Starving Artist- all these labels that he wears with such conviction. Such a cliché, but I love him for it. We are soul mates, I suppose. Except we never ruined it by getting married, or having a relationship, or going on dates. The sex, though, that was good. Oh yes, I remember snippets and it’s enough to warm me up. I’d almost forgotten those two hazy months in Morocco. The sun, to go back to the sun, the dust, the sweaty limbs, the deserted mountains, the dirty knees. Funny what can happen with a change of temperature. 
I better put my jumper back on. I feel awkward sitting here in my bra, my stomach fat folding itself neatly above my skirt. I wonder why Joey asked me to sit for him today. I’ve done it countless times before, yes, but back when I had tight skin and a poor student’s physique. He especially enjoyed painting my breasts, I remember that.

The traffic whines and fades in and out, the ebb and flow of four o’clock. Out the window, birds fly. It looks romantic out there, pastel pink and blue sky...baby socks, baby mitten colours. People are leaving work, back home to their families. I’m jealous. Is my home a home? What is a home? Family? Yes, that christmassy vibe of warmth, spice racks, knick knacks on bookshelves. I wish I could go back to toys and stains, but instead my home is empty. Bare walls scream failure at me. I am on the edge, staring into future’s vacant plan. Everything crumbles. I mustn’t indulge in these poisonous thoughts, damn it, what use are these binges of self pity?

‘Here you go my lovely.’

What a sight, this is home. Joey standing there with two chipped mugs, a puppy dog slant to his eyebrows- pathetic, adorable.

‘Cheers, Joe.’

I wonder if he can tell that I want to cry, he must. But on he goes, the laid back bastard, rolling a cigarette, his feet on the table- I can smell them from here- as he whistles nonsense. 

‘Can I see it?’ 

I don’t know why I ask, he never says yes.

‘Sorry, how many sugars do you have?’

Ha, ha. A giggle melts me slightly. My worry lines are far too ingrained now, my past seems to be etched on my face, and I wish I wish I wish there was remedy. I should move to the sun and never turn back so my face is always warm. Instead I shiver, here in this damp room.
Back in the chair I go, halogen heater by my feet, assume the position. Joey fumbles with his paintbrushes and I suck in tears. Hardened old hag. This chair is uncomfortable, I feel achey and restless. Back in my college years, I would spend hours in the studio, until three in the morning sometimes. God knows why they let me, God knows why I stayed. I was never that good at painting but I loved being alone with the radio on in those spacious rooms, my oversized lumberjack shirt soaking up paint, which I secretly liked, it branded me an artist. I wonder why they hung out with me then, Joey and Dave and that lot, I was so shy and serious. Or should I say this lot, we haven’t moved on much in thirty years. Still hanging around the same old haunts, floating like ghosts of our youth. I wish we could grow up.
It’s getting dark outside, no birds anymore. London rooftops remind me of that scene in Mary Poppins. I always saw myself in a seaside cottage, mother earth with her teething cherub, watching Mary Poppins as he cooks spaghetti. He. Where is he?

I can feel Joey scrutinising, I am just a picture to him now. I should try not to frown, although my eyes might give me away. People will look and see sadness in paint.

Roots

Croeso i Croesor

Green shoulders welcome us
Ancient and rested;
A whole valley in its heart,
Steeped with a steady breath,
The beating of wings,
The slow step of a foot on grass.

I see it in sunshine,
bluebell fields with the
sharp smell of wood sorrel,
and Cnicht in its majesty-
lit up like a statue. 

Quarry carved hills-
scars left protected
(a snag on barbed wire
only scratches the surface)
And in these hills lay rivers,
by these rivers,
moss, and secret dens.

Someone blew magic in the wind,
years ago.
Tying us all up with a reedy thread,
placing a pebble in our palms
and sticking mud between our toes,
gently weaving us all
into the tapestry,
the big picture.

We are tiny specks on an eggshell.
But we will grow from our roots,
like the blossoms and leaves,
and the wind will whisper,
Welcome home.

________________________________________________________

That Time

Remember that bar
where we went that first time-
in a backward street 
facing the sunset.

Red door and windows, painted to look old-
a fresh lick though-
undeniably so.
Remember the table at which we sat.
The candle burnt
and we thought we were so above it all-
the flame, the street, the part of town
we’d just discovered
in our post-picnic haze.
(It’s the sun! you said)

Above it all- 
discoverers of a new world-
weary with new findings,
desperate for shock,
but eyes never wide enough
to notice the beauty.

We sat for hours 
looking bored.
You mentioned something sweet and final
as if we could never go back,
as if that point was the pinnacle.
Nothing could impress you, could it?
I acted unruffled 
but my heart was beating like a mouse’s 
under my thick layers.
Each time you mentioned the possibility of---
I frowned.
The beer travelled through us in an amber river,
down spirals of tunnels,
in darkness.

When it was time to leave and we were alone again,
in the backwards street,
I glanced.
To my side you were there.
But I could not see your arm.
You had your hand tucked in your pocket
playing with loose change.

________________________________________________________

Last Day

The water rippled
in the shade
As we used the creases of the riverbank
to spread, unfold.

Bones, we lay,
swapping timely schedules
for a wasted day.
Glad of it,
glad of the earth and moths,
and the smoke,
washing into clean air.

Drinking,
letting ourselves drift
one face to the next.
One voice enough-
twelve voices tickling-
the goosebumps on our arms.

The sun set shyly 
as we put our layers back on. 

_________________________________________________________________

In the words of Sylvia Plath...

I long to permeate the matter of this world...
belong to the grass and the stems, the roots
to push up with the daisies
and sing through their leaves
break off in the breeze, petal by petal
undone and hair flowing
feet in the ash, the burning ambers
and my head in the smoke
burning pine fumes up to the moon.
Down in the soil where it echoes heartbeats
and moles twist their noses at each beetroot sense
each twitch of the nostril
beating with its breath and fleeting with a cough.
To live in roots means darkness and warmth.
To live in roots means womb again
means birth on a different day 
and life on a different earth
from it and around it.
Earthy smells and grass stains
and forgotten conkers from summers ago
left there by boys who prance like lambs
from the top of the tree
to the faces in the lawn.
The silence of still- the stillness of silence-
permeates and breathes with long sighs-
tonight’s the night, I say with disguise.
Cat eyes glare from bushes
and question this night invasion-
sees no use in lament or regret-
we’re here now she says,
sandpaper tongue 
scratching to the surface of the words
and turns a blind eye on darkness itself.
As she prowls the roots 
she sniffs and finds me 
curled up like a foetus statue
rigid and stubborn in my ignorance
shut eyed and worn
not yet open to falling leaves
and the breeze they bring.
Whichever winter,
whichever spring,
each time table and life cycle
are contained in one breath,
and forced out,
let go in its return.

Springtime Scribbles

(free writing)

What colour would the moon be if you saw it on a Saturday?
Would its feeble light shine a skimmed milk hue with powder blue, dangling sneezes of moonshine, each handful of moon rocks and moon stones an aftermath of rags and bones
No astronaut could find or discover all the forgotten satellites that roam around the craters and through the gaps that the space buggies made through the cheese fields and the absent gardens
Your mother said you should have found somewhere cheaper to go on your Valentine’s Weekend you stared her right in the face
huge doe-eyed resentment and without blinking you spat on the floor
let it dribble nonchalantly down your chin and oh how your mother screams how it does pierce through the tiles
she says she says what to do with a maniac like you and she leaves and you lick your chin dry
All your friends ask you what was it like
truth be told you can’t remember you slept during most of your trip so you gathered bits of information and fused and moulded them together with a blowtorch, even, and constructed a collage of memories which you remember forever
And now its a Sunday you sit solitarily and sanitized all prim on a patchwork your bum fidgeting and wriggling where is the cat? has she gone to feed?
So you light a gas lamp and turn the TV on to sound only and you pour yourself a drink and you siiiiiigh
were you rich? you can’t remember
The room looks as if it was reserved for you all your favourite snow fur colours and pictures of you and that ghastly woman (a kidnapper you suspect) who seethes and represents all those tensions you embody in yourself and how did you survive in a bland baby bottle
You forget so you sigh and find solace in silence








________________________________________________________









Oh Time


Oh time- where do you seep?
Where do you drip-moments sleep?
I know you are there but
It’s hard to see your face
When days slip by- so sneaky and quiet

Oh time- you are so flimsy
A butterfly wing caught in the breeze
I stand mid in the garden
As you flutter by my eyelashes
Just for a second
And then
You’re gone

Weeks are put in an hour glass
And I stand in the middle
Of the sand storm avalanche-
Why won’t you slow down?
I am at the pinnacle and yet so far from it already

Here, I sit, I write
The sun shines this chill morning
It could be a double of any day
And I wouldn’t even notice
It’s just how things are, I hear you whisper
Even then,
Ears seem too coarse for such silver-silk words

When I wake up early-
(because that’s what you do to me, time, I’m addicted)
I feel ready for the day
But as it unfolds it’s satin folds
And I slide down it, so slippery and light,
I become less hopeful-
I miss the morning and it’s novelty

Oh time!
I can’t keep up
Slow down or disappear
Slow down








________________________________________________________








Debauch-a-day

Silk quilts spill on to powder puff armchairs
Resting upon them, 
River flows of ash gilded in mould
And resting bodies too, red-ripe
Blood spat sheets
And soot black eyes
Overflows of wine and whiskey puddles
Vapour smell 
Incensed-ual intent
All the twisted inches and dead cells of yesterday
Hang from the ceiling
Chandeliers- yet no regret
Emanating vibrating and bloated with sleep
Paintings peer on
With vastness agape
Eros’s child no longer awake
She snores-
Over the credit cards and rizlas
To the fireplace and up and out
Until air is now deadened
With the stubborn hours
Morning snarls like a bulldog
Let off the chain
Comes charging through the slits
Through and through
The plum shade night

Assorted Poems

The Dreamcatcher Garden

In the dreamcatcher garden,
Roots grow from soil swimming with sleep
You must be quiet here- the plants need warmth and blessings of slumber
Do not shine a light, the sun is not needed
The plants moonbathe and feed off the stars
Flowers grow, sometimes with bloody petals and murky odours
These nightmares you must preen
Walk carefully in this garden, tread lightly in your step
Even the deadest of leaves may be dreamt of again
To water the bushes- imagine a stream
Stand above them and let out the puddles of your memory
They will soak them up gladly
Pick the dreamcatcher when it is ripe
And dangles off the tree
Shut the gate before you wake
Re-enter in your dreams

________________________________________________________
















Jealous Girl

A shot of sour gin:
Unfair, unjust
You watch as a curtain falls.

Suck as you swallow
Each drop- you ask-

Something hangs from the willows
Creaking arm cobweb

Jealous fuck
Tears open a mouth and screams something
You would not hear
With innocent ears.

Bathe in once-was
Look further than then
It is now and it’s done

Awash, await.








________________________________________________________












I can't grasp

Abstract?
Touchable?
A light in the fire or a glimpse
Of concrete nature
Do I have to describe
Or can I just say...

It’s a mixture
A bubble broth
A tongue twisted sibilance
Of sexual sacrifice-
Sibling rivalry-
Did I get what I want?

I overgrow my thoughts in to bushes
Twisted
branches they gleam with berries
Red.

I put them there, mouth open, waiting
Gaping-
I saw not.

I saw not your hand in the mirror
Shunning my grasp

Prematurely, my eyes wet
Oh river
Untouchable
Let me forget.

________________________________________________________












Train Journey 1


Feeling small amongst large buildings
Their lights glow neon
I grow in

Feeling small and
Back I go 
To small walled prisons
I crave tidy comfort
with cushions and phone calls

I have rivers who demand to crash through
I suck them in with the power of a breath
And all tightness demands submission.

Back I go
To the darker ways
And the round about sneers

I could collapse in my mother’s arms and smell her wool
But that would only backtrack
And help me hide

What I need is air
Alone or not I don’t care

Belittled, I know this feeling
A wet face as the train chugs fierce.

First Year Creative Writing Work

Poems:


My bladder is a box of dreams
You see this hand, it’s seen strange things
My bladder dreamt of festering guilt
Without my hand it would have spilt
A gush of sea-salt
High tide waves
White horses swimming to early graves

My throat is the end of all good hope
Your hand went down there once to grope
And grapple-
A rope.
I used that once to hang myself
Now it hangs on trophy’s shelf

My breasts are little milky mounds
I gasp for air now I’m upside down.


________________________________________________________




It was smoking cigarettes in the blue back yard

It was those fleeting hours way past our bedtime- clung unto through sleep

It was pints in hand, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, talking in sips

It was sleep on the beach- dream-haze of heat

It was sitting on the sofa, bare skin on leather

It was board games and paper games and silent secret games

It was a luscious fruit that blossomed and bloomed

It was kiss kiss grab and senses battered

It is a memory fluttering in the corner of our eyes

It is an autumn tree losing all its leaves- but how pretty the leaves fly







________________________________________________________













Memory Exercise:

(Remember a scene from childhood, but reverse your gender)

I stare at the slugs, except they don’t really look like slugs any more, they are something mysterious that appeared overnight, they must be magic. These inch long creatures have somehow formed a big ‘S’ shape and my sleepy eyes gasp in amazement. An ‘S’ for Samuel- but how did they know! I’m old enough to know they’re slugs but right now they’re statue still, they could be lots of things. A message from the woodland elves, maybe. This excites me. I imagine them sneaking in through little cracks and turning round to each other and saying ‘Shhh!’ whilst tip toeing past my snoring head. They must have used some kind of rope, probably bracken, to climb that high. I wonder if the slugs mind. They must be bored staying that still, in such a wiggly shape all night. I marvel at the tidiness of it, I couldn’t even write that neatly.

The sluggy ‘S’ clings on to the fabric wall just above the entrance, which is, in this case, a flap which has been pegged closed. The canvas material seems like a good place for them to stick on to, their slime must be like glue. They look silky and black, which contrasts against the patchy white walls, made even more bright by the sun filtering through. If I look really closely I’m sure I could spot other insects like woodlice or spiders but I’d rather not.

I’ve just woken up in my dad’s tipi and this is the first thing I see. It smells of damp, heavy, musty damp, and slightly of woodsmoke. Probably from the fire we used to cook dinner last night. This smell, although not the nicest, is comforting to me, it means Daddy Chris, it means outside in the woods. It’s so bright in here, the morning’s come after a long night trying to get warm. I’m wrapped up in layers of sleeping bag and blanket but still my nose is numb. I’m always glad when morning comes, although I’m always tired, the sun wakes up much earlier than what I’m used to. I yawn and blink. It’s cosy in here because it’s small. I like that it has a tall roof which stretches for miles up above me, held up by the long metal pole in the middle. Because it’s a tipi, the room is round, it’s nice not to have corners for a change. On the ground, on top of a blue plastic sheet, lies a bric-a-brac of textures. There are woven rugs made of thick wool, battered pots and pans, rain coats and waterproof trousers, and my weekend bag which is a blue rucksack with Thomas the Tank on it. It looks chaotic but everything is still. Birdsong twinkles in my ears but so softly it’s barely there. Mostly I hear silence and a slight breeze that makes the surrounding trees whisper. I try to sit up, the sides of the tipi feel wet from the dew. 

‘Sammy, are you awake?’

My dad pops his head into the tipi and the sun slices its way in.

‘Yeah’, I say with a croak in my throat.

‘Shall I make you some porridge?’

‘Ughh, porridge?’ I wrinkle my nose and stick out my tongue. ‘Why do we always have to have porridge?’

‘Because it’s good for you, it will make you big and strong, and give you lots of energy. You know all the woodland elves eat porridge every morning, don’t you? They make bowls out of acorn cups.’

I ponder this a second, and my eyebrows twitch upwards. 

‘Do they really?’
‘Yes they do, so you better too! Come on, put on your jumper and come outside, it’s a beautiful morning.’, and with that, his head disappears.

I make my way out of my nest of warmth and find my biggest, itchiest woolly jumper. I crawl towards the entrance and peek out. Right in front is the circle of stones used for the fire, which is lit now, heating up a saucepan of bubbling porridge. It smells so familiar, boring and bland. I want sugary cereals like I can have back at home. It is a beautiful morning though, my dad was right. Everything is green, with patches of moss lit up gold by the sunlight. We’re pitched up on top of a slope, in a clearing protected by oak trees. To the left of us, down the hill, is a river which I figure out is the sound of silence I heard earlier.

I watch my dad as he stirs the porridge. He crouches, knees bent and spread out either side of him, like a frog waiting to jump. He’s wearing his old scruffy long johns and a thick blue fleece, which is zipped up right to the top. His feet are bare, they always are, and they look cold wiggling there in the wet grass. My dad is a friendly giant to me. He’s a grown up but he’s fun too. He looks over to me and gives me a long, thin smile which spreads all across his face and makes his eyes shrink. He does everything so slowly and calmly, he takes his time with everything. Pick up the saucepan, pour it into bowls (the small plastic one for me, the big metal one for him), give the spoons a wipe, and there’s breakfast. 

We sit there for a while chewing and mulling. I take the time to look at my dad as he stares off into the distance in that special way of his. He has an angular face, and a nose that points out confidently. His hair is bushy and wavy, a bit like mine, although mine is darker. I’ve got my mum’s hair, but I like to think there’s some of my dad’s there too. After porridge, which I finish reluctantly, I go and explore the garden, which luckily for me is the whole forest. My dad tells me not to go far, but that’s OK because I always head to the same spot. It’s down towards the river and it’s where the woodland elves live. I half skip half run down the hill until I reach a dead tree that lies on its side. The bark is all shredded and is so light that it breaks off in your hand. I climb over it and there it is, the magic rock, covered in furry moss and tiny flowers and broken leaves. This is elf city. I pick up some wood sorrel that grows around its edges and chew on it, it tastes sharp and delicious. The sound of the river is overpowering but I feel at home. I bend down to the rock and whisper,

‘It’s Sammy here, thanks for the slugs!’