suburban nights

Home again. Another satisfactory day of double-entry book-keeping.

Maurice paused for a moment by the full-length mirror in the hall. He ran a gaunt finger across a carefully cropped moustache, chased an errant speck of dandruff from the lapels of a thin grey suit and made a minor, but necessary, adjustment to a black and white striped tie.  It was one of several hung in neat rows in his half of the wardrobe.

Well, not exactly a half, more a quarter.  There had been certain 'advances' from her side. A messy phalanx of expensive footwear, exotically heeled and bejeweled. It reached out in a haphazard pincer movement of riotous colour laying siege to his side of the wardrobe.  Even now, it threatened to cut off Maurice in his very prime. He felt ... hemmed in.

A familiar cheery chuckle from the kitchen, accompanied by the whistle of a kettle.

Maurice made his way upstairs to the pink-papered boudoir that served as their marital bedroom and opened the wardrobe.  The phalanx had advanced yet further during the day, augmented by the latest recruit to the burgeoning boot-camp.  A tacky confectionery in lurid lemon clad with two frivolous, fluffy bows. Maurice winced involuntarily and sighed. A profound heart-felt sigh. A sigh that rose from the very depths of Maurice's soul to fill the room like some grey, sunless autumn sky, extinguishing all light as it spread. He reached down into this Stygian gloom to untie his own immaculately polished shoes.

How had it come to this? He dreamed of happier times. His unexpected triumph in 'O' Level Woodwork, the hard-won accounting qualification from a minor red-brick on the fringes of suburbia. Maurice's rise to fame as Junior Accounts Manager at Pocket & Dockery might not have been the stuff of legends. It did, however, bear witness to a certain dogged determination and a keen eye for carelessly misplaced ledger entries. He was content with his achievements. But not with the contents of the wardrobe.

Maurice reached into the darkest inner recess and fetched out a neatly wrapped box.  He laid it down on the bed, kicked off his shoes and opened it. He would dream again. He would, he would, he would.

Claudette hummed happily to herself. Another joyous day topped by her latest purchase, an exquisite froth of twin-bowed beauty.  She giggled as she recalled hugging the shoes to her ample bosom. The wispy feathers had tickled her fancies!

Claudette's thoughts turned to dance. A spinning popinjay. He would whirl her across the ballroom, scoop her into muscled, glistening arms and bear her off triumphant to the bridal suite. It was a scene that occupied much of her fevered imagination. Just as Maurice's daily existence was measured by the methodical tap, tap, tap of a pocket calculator so Claudette lived her dream each morning after breakfast beneath the covers of a pink candlewick bed-spread. She longed for him.

The shrill whistle of the kettle brought Claudette back to the gaudy cacophony of clashing chintz crockery. She poured fresh-boiled water into a readied teapot and drew deep on the steamy jasmine-infused delights issuing from its spout.  A plate of nice biscuits, she thought. Ginger ones. Maurice's favourite.

The tea-tray loaded she made her way upstairs. Maurice was laid out on the bed in just his underwear, his grey suit-trousers now safe in the Corby press and an empty box by his side.

'Here you are my love ...'

Claudette's cups jiggled cheekily as she handed Maurice his tea.

'How's your day been?'

"Quite splendid, my dear .. another new audit. And yours?'

'Good too, I bought some ....'

'New shoes.'

Maurice finished her sentence.  He winced once more as he looked across at the wardrobe.  Claudette's eyes followed to the phalanx of footwear now marshaled with military precision in smart well-ordered ranks. There was a brand new platoon leader, a pair she failed to recognise.  Black patent-leather with sharp stiletto heels.

Claudette looked quizzically at the arriviste.

'But they're not my size ...'

'Oh ... but they are mine!'

Eyes met and pink floral curtains were drawn discretely as yet another night in suburbia began in earnest.

the plot thickens

Dear Sheddists,

in the third session of our Creative Writing course we're invited to extend the characters we've created into a short third party narrative.

So here's where I took Mimi, the fading Japanese beauty created by my group in our last session ...

'She smiles, not from her eyes but from her mouth. The camera tracks down down the languid curves that now fill out her form until it reaches her hands, clasped loosely but elegantly in her lap.

The interviewer leans forward. An intimacy that invades the jasmine-scented bubble inhabited by Mimi.  She smiles again and her eyes are deep black pools into which the interviewer finds himself drawn inexorably. He is violating her space.

There is an uneasy tension in the studio as the camera pans upward to Mimi's face, still smiling, still inviting his question.

She moves her head casually to one side, coquettishly guiding the hooked interviewer toward her unrelenting gaze. And in homes the length and breadth of the country TVs are pimped to the max with the garish, psychedelic mess of the interviewer's tie now strangling his scrawny, salary-man's neck. Adolescent boys coalesce in thick clumps around the screens. Waiting. Expectant.

Mimi looks up into the approaching face of her adversary and her eyes widen, taking the first bloodied bite. The studio falls silent but for the barely perceptible flutter of two pairs of immaculately trained eye-lashes. They are locked onto their prey.

His head has gone now. Eaten by the eyes as she continues to devour the interviewer's body piece by piece, closing round his neck as she sucks him in with a sickening sllllluuurrrrrpppppp.  One last gulp and he's gone as the swarming boys erupt in feverish ecstacy.

Chiharu strokes her slumbering form gently.

'Mimi, Mimi ... come to me, Mimi'.

She holds her close. Mimi is drenched and shivering as she comes round.

'You've had that dream again ...'

Chiharu rubs her trembling shoulders, easing the last of the night horrors from the exhausted and satiated body of her lover.'

And if you want to catch up with the back-story just scroll down to earlier entries on my blog.

Yours as ever,

electrofried(mr)

characters

Dear Sheddists,

during my second writing class we looked at the creation of characters.

Toward the end we collaborated in small groups to develop our own character and this is what the group I was in came up with ...

 Mimi -  a study in fading elegance

'Mimi is a Japanese lady in her fifties.  She was once 'something' in the media and has a loyal following of teenage boys who idolise and idealise her.  Her external beauty is slowly dissolving.

Mimi  is fighting against the media's view of her. This conflict is reflected in the nervous twitching of her left foot, exacerbated by the early onset of arthritis.  She has a dark secret - a relationship with an older woman. Through this she seeks to overcome poor bonding with her own mother who died in a tragic accident while Mimi was still young.

Mimi toys constantly with a small jade netsuke. This object has a permanence and a solidity which contrasts starkly with her fading elegance and the temporary nature of the world she inhabits.

Mimi wears an expensive haute couture trouser-suit coupled with a high-necked silk blouse.  Her outfit is complemented by beautiful jewelry.  Mimi's make-up is immaculate and tasteful - she has red nails.

Her demeanor is serene. Mimi is well-used to the attentions of the camera.  However, from time to time she will glance over her shoulder. Perhaps she's concerned her past is catching up with her.'

A second character

We also devised a second character to interact with Mimi ... 

'Mimi has an octogenarian fan who is both wealthy and utterly obsessed. He has statues at the gated entrance to his large estate in the shape of Mimi's netsuke.

This man has suffered many failed relationships in the past.  No one he has met can ever match his idol.

His wealth comes from the pharmaceutical company he has built up over the years.

The man is average-looking, nothing to mark him out from the crowd. He does, however, have a Mimi tattoo on a hidden part of his body.'

A diary entry for Mimi

Our homework this week is to compose a diary entry written by our chosen character. Here's my attempt ...

'Flowers today - lots of them. Just like yesterday, just like the day before that, just like for ever. What on earth am I going to do with them all?!  Chiharu can't stand them. Says they remind her of the cherry-blossom gardens in the Hirano Shrine at Kyoto.   

I'm getting worried about Chiharu. She's starting to drift. Takes her ages to get going in the morning. She talks endlessly about mist, dewdrops, shrouds and different shades of moss and none of it makes the remotest bit of sense.

I have to pull myself together. An interview this morning.  I'll wear the navy trouser-suit. Seems more ... commanding.  And I need to be on top of my game today.

Let's throw away all the flowers. Got to make sure the wrapping paper is folded neatly. I'll put the cellophane and those funny little green bags of crystals to one side to make sure they all go in the right recycling bin.  And what exactly should I do with the crystals?  I can't make up my mind which bin to put them in. Perhaps I should just grind them up and feed them to Chiharu with her breakfast jasmine tea! She'll never notice. She might even enjoy them.

A shower, make-up, nails - it seems to take longer and longer with each passing day.  Just hope I can get through that interview OK.'

Well it's hardly a work of art, but I enjoyed the challenge of trying to bring a character to life in a few short sentences.  I'm looking forward to what next week brings!

Yours as ever,

electrofried(mr)

a beginning

Dear Sheddists,

many of you will have observed over the years the deteriorating quality of my long-running blog, so with self-improvement firmly in mind I have enrolled in not one, but two courses at a renowned Arts Centre.

I started the classes earlier this week - the first in creative writing and the second in photography - and both were excellent.

During my first class the tutor invited us all to spend three minutes 'free writing' in response to the following introduction..,

'The letter I received today was most surprising because ...'

This was my effort.


'The letter I received today was most surprising because she had died some two years ago. The writing was frail and spidery. Not surprising really given the arthritis that had plagued her in later years. And what was that blotch on the corner of the blue Basildon Bond notepaper? Perhaps a tear? Perhaps a spot of grease that dripped inadvertently from her customary breakfast bacon sandwich?  

She so loved to write in the morning.  She always left a notebook and pen on the kitchen table before retiring to bed and on awakening she reached for it as automatically as a young child clutching a toothbrush. 

But why had it arrived now?  Who had sent it and when? He turned the paper over slowly searching for a clue of its origins.  He lifted it to his nose and inhaled the faint musky odor of a long-deceased thought that trailed off with a "love you"...

The second exercise we were invited to undertake was the construction of a letter demonstrating emotion. I chose to write one to an anonymous stranger.

'You've been parking our car outside my drive every morning for the last six weeks.  I'm fed up with it so that's why you found this note on your windscreen.

You probably don't know it but my my daughter, my pathetic epileptic daughter, is strapped into her wheelchair each and every morning to go to to school. It takes me hours to get her ready. Changing her like a baby, wiping her mouth, making sure she doesn't choke on her mashed-up breakfast. And you - you don't give a stuff do you?

Have you ever seen a six year old choking on a mouthful of food? Well, I have. Watched her rock her head from side to side, turning red, turning blue ... but she's powerless to speak. She's never spoken, she's never screamed. She can't, she just can't - but you make me scream! 

Why do you not think of others? Can't you see the sign on the back-window of my van??  The one with a picture of a wheelchair and an ever so polite request to leave room.  Well - have you?!!! I see that sign every single day of the week and it reminds me of her, my helpless, hopeless fitting, choking, messed-up little girl in her wheelchair. 

She'll never drive a car like you, she'll never walk, never crawl ... 

But she smiles. She smiles at me!  The sort of smile that lights up my day - that makes up for every single God damned idiot like you who goes his own way without a single thought for anyone but yourself. It only takes a second you know. It only takes one miserable little second to stop and think.

Yours,

the woman whose effing drive you block each and every morning.'

I'm looking forward to seeing how the course unfolds.  More soon on what went on in my photography class.

Yours as ever,

electrofried(mr)

stories from the apocalypse - two wolves

Did we squirm and twist past flying text and the howl of winter-driven maelstrom?

Did we???

Waking fierce to the night and crying out, in red.  Watch the blizzard swirl, and there she pads.  Lupine and grey-eyed, blinking in the early morning sun.  His dream in the ancient brittle-boned, the maned-wolf Canidae.  Following her trail.

Canis lupis and the pelt is raised in hot-blood, embraced and clawing the frosty forest ground.  Alive once more.  We watch the two wolves pass from sight.  Entwined and dancing through the thick pine musk of a wintery needled floor.

The blizzard swirls once more, whipping our snow-blind eyes.  And all is sweet surrender as they enfold in white.  Alone, together.