She Got That From Her Mother

It was either the nausea, or the pain streaming through his head that woke him. Before he opened his eyes he knew things weren’t okay. With all the telltale signs around him, it was his gut feeling that put him in panic mode. Knowing he was awake but feeling like he was dreaming, he would pinch himself but movement was limited. Frustrated that his body was ignoring his commands, like a child with no control. His lungs rebelling as his chest squeezed tight, looking for the biting point, the line of no return. Finding it hard to concentrate, like distracted adolescence. The pain, enclosed breathing space, a loud humming from a distance. All the things playing hide and seek with his senses added to his confused train of thought. His mind jumping back and forth, current to past. The uncomfortable seat he was slouched in, the smile on his daughter’s face. The fear of opening his eyes, his wife holding his hand.

Feeling his chest start to pulse, liquid leaving his mouth and nose. It felt like a memory, but the realisation kicked in with the damp feeling in his lap. Is this a dream? If so, he wanted to wake up now. He felt guilty, confused because he didn’t know what for. Feeling his throat wheeze reminded him of his father, he had smoked for years against everyone’s complaints and concerns, his father’s whistle. The memory stuck with him while he slipped deeper into the dark. Remembering the anguish across her face, the sound of his daughter crying his name as he left. Tears found their way down his face through sealed eyes, his nose burning.

You only regret making a decision once it’s too late, no energy to turn back time. His life slipping away through his pores. He remembered attaching the pipe to the exhaust of the car, taking a look at life outside before he closed the garage door and sealed himself in. His mind was fighting but his body refused to react. Fatigued, frightened, alone. His final thought was of his daughter, she was beautiful, strong. She got that from her mother.   

Bricks and Mortar

Dear you,

The reflection of the mirror never pays you justice. I sit there and watch as you get ready, knowing that you just can’t be replicated. Like that of a picture, beautiful, but never able to compete with the real spectacle. The glow, the desire, the overall being. I don’t know if this is real, so many questions. But none important enough to stop me admiring your presence. Believing in the tomorrow, the stars may not be aligned, but I’m working on that. I’ll roll my sleeves up and build the ideal setting. I’ll dig the tunnel, fix the bridge, pull your boat ashore. We are the river, not the drift wood. I’m not one for coasting, as long as I have strength, I’ll hold you high because I want to show you the sights. I have no interest in being your history, your regret, your once was. There’s no future in that, directionally driven and I wasn’t built with a reverse gear. Not born for games, the only match I’m looking for is one you can ignite, hold it under my heart so you can see me for who I am. In fear of the burn, but not enough to stop me from playing with fire. ‘Home is where your heart is’ they say, and I want you to be my bricks and mortar. Like a kite on a windy day, letting you down isn’t an option. We may dip, a little sway here and there, but there’s always the strength to bloom in the sky.
Because of you, I know that romance isn’t dead.

Me

The Cigar Shack

Holding light from times past, and a swirling desire for times to come. This little wooden pocket of memories, It’s filled with love. The kind of love you can’t buy, trade, or surrender. Tucked away in the centre of a city we love, a stone’s throw from the hustle, this little delicate corner always keeps the silence, for when we return. To step in and take a breath, to take a moment, an hour or two. There’s no busy clock hands, no intermittent reminders, all outside communication is sealed away in a bottle and thrown overboard until we decide to return to civilization. A little white china ashtray gripping our addiction as we pick at olives and pistachios. Cigarette smoke rising into a game of kiss chase, converging before dancing along the walls and running off into the night together, no looking back. As the evening starts to turn, the chill creeps in around the corners hungry for its first victim, only to be disappointed by the woolen tartan blankets that we find ourselves nestled up in. The contagious rhythms of Pink Floyd and laughter take over, folding the silence up, and keeping in a safe place for when it’s needed again. These sounds echoing around the walls before they become etched into the night sky. A delicate little spot that never seems to be busy, our own little find, tranquillity. The occasional interruption from the bar staff informing us of the origin and history from which our rum has endured. The ice gently singing a song as it taps the side of the glass, a sweet melody of partnership. Whether it sings for it’s own duet, or for us, we’ll never know. But we can always turn it into whatever we want, we’re both good at that, making any situation a good situation, our own. Eventually it becomes time, time to fold up the blankets, extinguish the cigarettes, let the ice finish it’s last tune. As we step away, we watch the lights fade as the cushions regain their original plump form. We know this little wooden pocket will be there when we return, for as long as we remember why it’s there, for us.

Mirror

Pale, the curving contours causing shadows and dull patches. Coloured spheres darting back and forth with a similar rhythm to a pendulum on an old washed out piano. A surface that has seen many elements, masked, but only a prevention from age, there’s no cure as the time passes away. Weathered, yet attractive. Like pebbles skimmed across the surface, leaving ripples and wrinkles of life, but unlike water, the wrinkles become more apparent with no signs of fading or drifting away. With each cycle of the sun, the lines hold firm and claim their place. Each passing he notices something different, a soft façade capable of love and emotion, but sometimes riddled with exhaustion and anguish. Depending on his frame of mind he sees beauty, positivity bringing on the attractive glow. Knowing that negativity will only swallow up the good and drag the insecurities to the surface, only for him to see but is believed all will bear witness. A state of vanity that’s stoked like coals in a raging fire, he knows that growing old gracefully is the only option. Most days he knows what he sees, but on the odd occasion he doesn’t recognise what’s before him, what looks back at him each and every day. He knows it better than most, the shape, the strengths, the weaknesses, but there are days, days that just leave him to question. Today isn’t one of those days, he might be looking older, worn, weathered, with dashes of silver, but that is what’s looking back at him. The mirror doesn’t lie, but the mind does.

When was the last time you complimented someone?

I’m no stranger to the occasional passing comment about the way I look, or especially the way I dress. When I say a ‘passing comment’, I don’t mean a compliment. It’s funny how people mainly voice their opinion when it’s negative, is this who we’re becoming? When was the last time you gave someone a compliment? It’s amazing how far a few nice words can go, can change someones view on the whole day.
I remember quite a few years ago, I was sat on a bus and noticed that someone had scribbled ‘You are beautiful’ on the back of the seat in front of me. The words looked worn, old, but they still held the strength of the day they were first written. These words were obviously penned for someone in mind, I hope they got them. It was strange, but those words made me smile. I know they weren’t written for me, and that wasn’t the point, it was the fact someone had written those words to make someone feel beautiful. It’s amazing how a couple of words can cause such an uplift. From that day forth, I made it a conscience effort to compliment, whether it was written, or verbally. To my loved ones, or even strangers that I have a conversation with. Something so small, yet something so powerful. Obviously there are boundaries with this, you can’t just walk up to a complete stranger and tell them they have a cracking arse! If you could, we’d all be doing it. Don’t forget that the main point of giving a compliment is to mean it, don’t just say it if you think it’s going to get you brownie points or it means nothing! A compliment should never be fuelled by personal gain.
It’s no secret to anyone who knows me well, I read a lot of books. What isn’t well known is that once I’m finished with them, before I take a select few to the charity shop I write a little motivational note in the front, such as ‘Today is your day’, ‘Smile’ or like the one that made me smile on the bus ‘You are beautiful’.
The importance behind this is how powerful words can be, something so simple, can mean something so amazing. But it can work both ways, words can also be painful, and vicious, so watch your tongue!
If you always have a negative opinion, you’ll only ever see negative results . . . I think it’s about time you went out and complimented someone.

No. 27

The pink and yellow petals merge the room together, a comfort blanket for the open minded. One room broken down into loving compartments, a collage of old and new, vintage and modern, love and hearts. All mirroring that of the beauty that resides. A creative mind that shines through in her surroundings, showing her touch, leaving a trail like a whisper, enough to know it was once created by her, and will stay that way until she decides otherwise. Scatter cushions and striped boxes, blankets and candles, all add to the surroundings that whip you up into a relaxed frenzy. Your personal nerves in battle with the rooms aura of comfort, standing on the edge while wrapped in cotton wool. Vacant picture frames waiting to be filled with memories and laughter, finding it hard to choose which smile from which day, they can’t all be on display, there are so many. A mesmerising clock hand, ticking in the background to remind you that time is still moving, but not for one moment are we in a rush. A brown leather sofa delicately carving the room in two, holding memories, heartache, and heroism. It will wrap you up in all occasions and remind you that taking a moment is good, good for you. Placement of ornaments that arouse thought, crystals to strengthen a mood and breed vitality into the room, all complimented by the faint hint of sage in the air to fluff and plump your negativity to a non existent state. The warmth and love between these four walls expelling any disbelief that this is a haven, a home, her home. A home of love, peace, and sanctuary.

A Smudge of the Retina.

A refreshing beauty, standing alone in a crowd, for all that surrounds is just a smudge of the retina. All just blending into nothingness, the air around, beaming ripples like a pebble in water. An oxygen pulse that pushes it’s own boundaries, to leave a state of breathlessness like a heavy side wind. A smile that cures any moment of insecurity, whipping that moment of existence into the mother of all storms, a storm that won’t settle until you part ways once again, and you’re left with the craving of destruction. Eyes that hold the appeal of a sunset over this city, will always stop you in your tracks to admire. A beauty that takes you away from a feeling of worry, to think, to see, to realise that you have a moment, a moment to exhale and believe, a figure that can mesmerise and hold your attention, to cause all that you shade your eyes from, it all just slowly becomes a smudge of the retina. And in the blink of an eye, this moment passes, just like this encounter. No recollection of time, it’s not needed, time will only ever be a hindrance, until you’re counting down the hours again.

The Grand Misconception.

Ladies, there is, and probably always will be an unwritten rule – a man never chooses a woman, he can only show you that his interest and availability is there, and as much as most of us men would hate to admit it, the decision generally falls onto your lap. But with that, that doesn’t mean that the effort should only lay claim to the male. We all know that the instruction manual for the opposite sex will never be published in our lifetime, if I took a guess, the author is probably battling their sixth divorce and feeling quite like a fraud.
There is a grand misconception that us men do not discuss our likes, wants, and dislikes between each other, well, we do. Whether it’s in the gym changing room, the pub, or even a chance meeting in the magazine aisle in Tesco. We talk about you. From the women that have crossed our path, or the ones that are yet to do so. I’m not talking about the childlike ‘I’d do her!’ comment from the prepubescent jock, I mean the conversations that happen between like minded, early thirty somethings that have slayed their man mountain ego through their twenties and have come out the other side as a gent.
I thought I’d take this opportunity to give you a heads up, I’m not taking sides, I’m not selling out, just giving you something to think about.

We’re not as shallow as you think we are. Bold statement, I know. Nothing ever just comes down to looks. Yes, the way you look will always be our first impression, but if we’ve made that effort to open a conversation with you, that means we want to know who you are. Please don’t ever think that the way you look on that particular evening holds precedence over confidence and the ability to hold a good conversation. It’s always nice to have someone attractive on your arm but if your social skills are as strong as a chocolate teapot . . you’ll only ever be an attractive someone on the arm, nothing more. We want to be able to take you to a friend’s wedding and be in sound mind that if we nip to the mens room, or the bar, we don’t have to rush back to our ‘rabbit in headlights’ plus one.
If we’re dating you, amongst other things, we’re attracted to the way you look, so easy on the make up please, love. We all love a woman who takes care of her appearance, but there is a thick line between looking good, and looking like Boy George, yet you sometimes still try to cross it. Waking up next to your natural self, shows that you are confident around us, your confidence gives us confidence. . . . We want to get to know all of you, and we won’t judge. Please don’t misconstrue the point I’m trying to make, I’m not saying don’t wear any make up, as I said before, we all love a woman who takes care of her appearance. I’m saying, the less make up, the better. And don’t be coy about us seeing you without.
A high majority of us men find women that train attractive, whether you’re the woman in the gym on the cross trainer in the morning, or out pounding the pavement at night. Yes, you might be all red faced and sweaty, to us, we see the confidence, the discipline, the motivation to get up and make that personal effort to better yourself, or to keep in shape. This shows us that you are willing to go out and put effort behind making a difference, and while having that attitude with training, in most cases means that you also have that attitude with all aspects of your life. Next time he asks you to train together, run together, go to a class together, don’t over think it. Just do it. He’s not going to think about your level of fitness, whether you look red and out of breath. He just wants to share that motivation with you.
If you’re on a night out with the girls, on a work lunch, or just popping to the shops, and you see someone who interests you, don’t wait for them to come and chat you up, act on it. There’s a chance they haven’t spotted you so don’t automatically think they’re not interested. That confidence will speak volumes. We are the same as you, we all fear rejection, we all have our own insecurities, and because of this we all have missed opportunities. The fact that you have approached us is attractive in itself. The idea that a woman should never approach a man is outdated. Also, if you are approached by someone and you’re not interested, don’t be a dick about it. Just think of the courage that person has had to build just to come over and talk. Put yourself in their shoes. Being polite costs you nothing.

Above all, just be yourself. You don’t want someone to fall for the person you’re trying to be. We’re pretty simple beings, be honest, be open, and if you have any sense . . never sleep on an argument, a man full of doubts is a dangerous man.

Strokes of a Paintbrush. .

Her hand gently traced the muscles of his back as they lay there entwined, her face buried into his shoulder, she gently laced his neck with her lips, working her way around the lower line of his beard, she had grown quite fond of the feeling of his beard on her skin, like strokes of a paintbrush. They both lay silently, knowing that any one word could end this embrace, clouded by the thought that they both shouldn’t be where they are, but that made it more appealing, they had started something they couldn’t end. The attraction bore deep in them both.
His eyes outlining the intricate details of the tattoos that coloured her skin, stroking the line work on her arm, making sure he didn’t colour outside the lines. Her naked torso pulled him in closer, nuzzling in for warmth and attention, she started to work her fingers through the hair on the back of his head, gently tugging, the one thing she knew would get her the attention she craved. Her nails slowly leaving lines on the skin of his side, a remnant of where she had been, and where she would return. Pulling her foot up against the bottom of his, a way of pulling him in closer, close enough to compliment the way she felt. Craning her neck, she reached up and gently nibbled his lower lip. He pulled her small frame onto his. As she perched on top of him, he lined her spine with his fingers to make her back arch and her skin prickle. Reaching up and tugged on the back of her hair, pulling her back down to his level, she dug her nails into his tattooed chest, pushing back to feel engrossed in that moment of pain as she let out a little moan. . . .

. . . . The alarm broke the silence in the room, the moment was extinguished as he opened his eyes, only to once again stare at the emptiness of the pillow beside him, a reminder that he was still alone.

The Log Cabin

The mountain range was beautiful at this time in the morning, the sun licked every curve, every crevice, beating the shadows back into their own corners of damp and loneliness. This was one of the selling points for the log cabin. He, being a writer, loved how secluded it felt, high in the mountains, surrounded by trees and earths elements. She, being his wife and decision maker, loved this view. It had been ten years since they had made the decision, they had never regretted it. He had spent many mornings standing in the kitchen, looking through the window at this view. His wife was sat in her usual spot, outside on the decking, coffee on the table, watching the sun paint images onto the mountains as the new day began. They hadn’t been to the cabin for a while, he was busy with a book tour, she was busy being a secondary school teacher. He knew this was probably be the last time she would see this view, the last time they would be there together.

He stepped through the french doors onto the decking with his coffee in hand, took a seat next to his wife.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said
“Errr, yes, I guess” she replied looking confused
“Are you okay, darling?”
“Where are we?” she looked startled, confused, and a little scared. He had seen these facial expressions quite a lot over the last six months, he would never get used to them.
“We’re at the cabin, darling. You know, in the mountains”
She took a moment to look around, her personal space, realisation started to spread across her face.
“Well of course I know we’re at the cabin, but, why are we here?”
“I just thought it would be nice to come up for a couple of days, fresh air, beautiful views, a little thinking space”
She reached across the table and took his hand in hers, she smiled, the smile that wrapped him up in cotton wool and emotion.
“Of course, of course, it was a lovely idea my darling, thank you” she said with a smile.
They sat and watched the sky pass, the colours turn, true beauty unveiled right before their eyes. The sound of nature surrounded them, the sounds that he often thought he could hear when alone in another lonely hotel room on tour.
“I do love you” she broke the human silence
“I love you too my darling, so much” he felt a tear build behind his glasses.
“I know I’m ill, I know why we’re here, thank you”
She was always the observant one of the duo, she was known as the clever clogs, a private joke between the two of them.
“What are you going to do?” she asked
“What do you mean? What am I going to do?” he looked at her puzzled
“You know . . . When I don’t remember” she said putting on a brave face, she knew that if she was going down, she would go down strong and swinging.
“We don’t need to talk about this now, darling” he frowned
“I want you to always remember that you are my everything, my saviour, my love, my beggar, and my king. I need you to remember this, because, I know I won’t” she squeezed his hand and turned to look at the pictures on the mountains.
“Lets not talk about this, please. I’m going to get more coffee, you want a fill up?”
He stood up, took both of the mugs and headed into the kitchen. He flicked the kettle on and broke down. An overwhelming heartache took him under its wing, He cried like never before, trying to catch his breath while it tried to leave him, a paper butterfly in a wind tunnel. His body shook, like a possessed being. He knew this day would come, the day that her illness needed to be discussed in depth. He took a few minutes to dry his eyes, deep breaths, waiting for his heart to settle and his hands to stop shaking. He made their coffee as he watched her through the window, the love of his life, the reason he was strong, like an ox, it was all for her.

He stepped out onto the decking, placed the coffee on the table and rested back into his seat. she turned to look at him, her face confused and startled again.
“Where are we?” she asked
“We’re at the cabin, darling” he replied, his eyes started to well up again, his breathing heavy.
“Oh, of course we are, darling. Is that coffee for me?” she smiled
“Just for you, my love”
She took his hand in hers, turned her head to look at the view.
“This is a lovely view, isn’t it darling?” She smiled.