Now I Know My ABC...: October 2012

This isn't a C post I guess, but out of the three poems I've been editing today it seemed the most ready to share. Originally drafted back in May at a writing course with Zoe. Feedback welcomed so I can tackle another edit and maybe even finish it.

War

Sentinel guards pocket the rockface,

Hide tied deserters that prickle and drip

Blood and honey, descend into deep red.

Banished dark side measures its losses in rubies and gold;

Scarred crags and banishment.

Light refracts, losing its way;

The nest stirs.

Unreal steel creates window, closes doors.

Thrown stones amplify this battle and shatter;

Nudging the grounded claw.

Little pitchers open their mouths hungrily

Before they are closed.

Light shimmers across the bridge, an aquiline horizon.

Mirror image universe where water cools the crisis;

Numb Aquarians pool their resources.

Heads crack over this naïve nuclear button;

Lying green in this sullied gully.

Organisers retreat underwater;

Over the hill, nothing but watchers remain.

Cyclical justice administers this perennial wipe-out.

The shadow of a debt-collector

Declares a winner.

Hi everyone, this is a short section from a story I've been writing about a couple of brothers (yes, I'm cheating a bit this week). To avoid confusion... the brothers are called Euan and Lauchlan, but Euan refers to Lauchlan as Lockie, Loopie, Loopie-poopie-poo and several other variants. The nickname business is explained in an earlier section, so worth mentioning here so you don't wonder who all these different people Euan refers to are (hope that makes sense)!

There had been just three minutes of Christmas Day remaining when his knock had finally come; late didn’t even begin to cover it. I fumed to the door in my over-sized novelty slippers, half-gliding, half-careering across the floorboards. I reached the door just as the knocking began again. I’d had to wait all day, he wouldn’t even wait a minute.

Mum and Dad had left three hours ago after finally giving up hope of Euan materialising. Mum had delayed dinner as long as possible by desperately waving a piece of paper at Isla, who’d forsaken her own family Christmas to cook for us.

“Just a few more minutes, Dear. He’ll be here – see, it’s his booking confirmation.” Isla ignored the pointless piece of paper and looked to me for support. I grimaced then caved under Mum’s petitioning gaze.

“Come on Isles, just another half an hour maybe? The roasties need a little longer anyway.” Her frown told me all I needed to know. She had far less tolerance for Euan’s antics than the rest of us.

“If you say so, Lauchlan,” she said genially enough for the benefit of my parents, then under her breath she hissed, “but you and I both know that confirmation of his train booking means nothing, the fact your mum feels the need to ask for it means far more…”

It wasn’t until hours after the Queen’s speech and long after the food had spoiled that Mum, who’d by then grown maudlin on countless aperitifs, finally let Isla serve up. We made a good fist of it – cracker jokes, ridiculous hats, obscene, charred calorie consumption followed by our customary game of Trivial Pursuits, but the veneer of good humour hiding my parents’ disappointment and Isla’s hostility quickly wore thin. Dad eventually admitted it was a futile wait and persuaded Mum that it was time they headed home. He helped her into her woolen coat, then waited stoically in the stairwell while Mum finished gathering up her handbag and scarf.

“Why can’t he be more like you, Lauchie?” she asked as she kissed me goodnight. I said nothing, knowing full well that if he was like me nobody would have waited long enough to let dinner spoil. Isla left five minutes after Mum and Dad, furious that we’d let Euan ruin our day without even being there.

“I don’t know why you all idolize him so much,” she’d ranted as she wrapped her cherry coat tightly round her and pulled on a wooly, black hat. “The whole day bloody ruined because he’s too flamin’ selfish to pitch up.” I noted, not for the first time, that Isla had clearly crossed the love–hate divide since the days she and Euan had dated.

“Don’t let’s fight, Isles.”

“Well don’t keep letting this happen.” She wouldn’t be mollified.

“Where will you go?”

“Anywhere there are people who don’t think the sun rises and sets around Euan bloody Forbes…. Angie’s probably.”

“Let me know you’re safe will you?”

“Course…” she’d paused by the door. “It’s not you, it’s him.” She kissed me on the cheek and disappeared into the night leaving me to slump on the sofa and fall asleep alone watching Christmas specials. Two hours later, a mere nine hours after his scheduled arrival, the prodigal son and brother awoke me from my solitary slumber.

I pulled back the trigger on my loaded mouth as I opened the door, but his Southern drawl beat me to it.

“Hey, Lock Chops, I hear we’re having fennel? I brought bourbon.” I paused trying to process the non sequitur just long enough for a half-drunk bottle of bourbon to be thrust at me from the stairwell. My gaze moved up the leather-jacketed arm that was holding it, over the wide shoulders until it reached Euan’s handsome face.

“You’re late,” I accused, but the words seem to bounce off his warm grin and only deepen his dimples.

The truth was he was never really late. He couldn’t be late because things never really got started until he got there. He’d blaze into your life – a whirlwind of awful facial hair, inane catch phrases, terrible jokes and inappropriate behaviour – and then in a blink he’d be gone again, leaving a toothbrush, a hangover and a T-shirt-sized hole in your wardrobe, as if marking his territory for his return. His presence made you lift your game, be just that fraction louder, sharper and more mischievous. Even though my parents complained that they never knew where he was, and moaned that he never called, grew ungainly beards and spent their money on tattoos and piercings, he was always forgiven when he walked through the door. His reappearances were typically welcomed with long evenings of eating and drinking, all of us trying to out bad-pun or obscure-reference one other, and my parents trying desperately to find out where Euan had been. He always avoided their direct questions, but made sure he dropped enough hints to help them piece it together. It was like an extended game of after dinner charades with verbal rather than visual clues and Mum and Dad loved it.

“Late?” he queried with a pierced eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you were worried about me, Loo-poo?” And in he strode, bourbon in one hand, my arm in the other. “Nice Slippers…” We made our way to the kitchen. “Nice tree!”

“So Pookie,” he said as he screwed the cap off the bourbon and fumbled around the draining rack looking for glasses. “What did we get everyone for Christmas?”

“Tosser…” I laughed, then began listing the various gifts I’d forged his signature on.

“Good job, Pooks! Wanna see what I got you?”

“You bought me a present? Did Hell just freeze over?”

“Lowest form of wit, Pooks… Anyway, I’ve brought you an ‘education’ rather than a present.” He raised that pierced brow again and flashed me an unnerving smile. It all sounded distinctly ominous, which was exactly why my excitement grew as I watched him rummage in his bag. Before my present-come-education appeared, the infamous clank of glass-on-glass confirmed my suspicions.

“A liquid education, by any chance?”

“You know me too well!”

“I can feel the hangover all ready.”

“No, no, no…” he protested. “God put women and alcohol on this earth for us to enjoy. The beautiful ones don’t bite back.”

“Is that so?”

“I told you this would be an education.” With that, his arm emerged from his bag holding a full bottle of Añejo, Patrón. I eyed the bottle of tequila and its bearer with equal disdain.

“Don’t look at her like that, Pooks, you’ve gotta love her if she’s gonna love you back.”

“Thing is, brother dearest, I distinctly remember telling you I hated tequila the last time I stayed with you.”

“Really?” He feigned ignorance, “that Ronnie Scott’s sure is a noisy place…”

“Look, man, I’m not drinking it. I don’t care what you say.”

“We’re not talking any old tequila here, this is “Patrón, she’s one of the best.”

“I don’t care if ‘she’s’ the Queen of Sheba, she’ll still make me gag.” Wounded by my words, Euan stroked the bottle with theatrical affection.

“There, there, Honey, Loopie-Poo’s just a virgin, he knows not what he says.”

“I know only too well and I’ve a sizable Christmas dinner sitting in my gut – double portions thanks to your absent ass – so let’s not tempt fate, eh?”

“What’s life without a little temptation? Anyway, I’ll bet you those slippers you’ll keep her down.”

“Mate, I’m too tired for this…”

“Añejo might wake you up…?”

“Eurgh, whatever.” I laughed, defeated. “Just make sure you garnish my glass with a nearby bucket… just in case.”

“At-a-boy!” he congratulated with playground eagerness.

“By the way, about the slippers… Mum’s got you a matching pair!”

“Well I’d better try them on for size while I re-educate your palate.”

With that Euan donned my novelty elf slippers and proceeded to slide around the kitchen, chilling glasses, crushing ice, shaking egg white, extracting various bottles from the recesses of his bag and measuring, muddling, tasting, all the while singing a funked-up version of You gotta have faith.

“Your first nuclear margarita!” he announced with a slight bow. “Enjoy.” I contemplated the glass, feeling the weight of his expectation settle upon me. My saliva glands were already in overdrive, whether pre-vomit or enjoyment would be confirmed shortly.

“Where’s my bucket?” I teased, but I could see the joker had left the room. Cocktails were one of the few things Euan took seriously. I breathed deeply, raised the glass slowly and drank… “Jesus, man!”

He jumped back alarmed. “What…? You don’t like?!”

“How the hell do you do that?”

“Ah ha, you like!”

“Damn you, I’ve hated tequila since I was seventeen! Now there’s nothing I won’t drink!”

“Ah ha!!” He triumphed.

“My liver will have you for this!”

“Not all educations are painful, eh?” He raised his glass to mine. “Sláinte …”

I returned the toast. “…Sláinte,”

We were still going when the sun began to thaw the fingers of frost on the living room window.

Now I Know My ABC...

Sunday, 28 October 2012

C is for ...Cathedral

Saint Joseph Cathedral, Hanoi

C is for... erm, War

Wednesday, 24 October 2012

B is for Buddha.....oh and Bradley..

B is for Buddha

B is for ........Bradley doing Bruce Forsyth Poses Around the World

Monday, 22 October 2012

C is for... Carousel

Sunday, 14 October 2012

B is for... Beached

Thursday, 11 October 2012

Brothers

Monday, 8 October 2012

B is for... Buddha

Thursday, 4 October 2012

B is for... Boris Bikes!!!