Jack

            Jack stands in the courtyard quite alone. He feels resistance: under his fingernails, in the air, between the dry bristles and the canvas, between his feet and the cool granite. His loss is complete. How could he hope to build a relationship with Sam on a foundation of grief and guilt. Still he felt the lingering touch of his friend's lips at his neck. Was it merely a mirage: that feeling that there had been more than fraternal love in that touch? When he came to the East he had desired a chance to be free, to flirt with the mystic arts and uncover the unplumbed depths of his own longing, but even here society would dictate what colour could be shown on his canvas.

           As a child he had been loved, within the socially acceptable constraints of the time: at arms length, seen and not heard and he had longed to be free, to be wild, untweeded. 

Fear of the unknown is what tethered him: fear of losing the chance to examine the tremor of his own desire, his own happiness, the flutter of anticipation as his blood pulsed hard through his wrist, but his father’s words always kept him in check.

          “Your life has been paid for. You know nothing of value.” 

            Was it true? He had been given a destiny without taking a journey, robbed of the need to find value and purpose in his life.

          Lifting the brush with sweating palms he loaded it with pigment and surprised himself as he slashed a black line across the canvas full of hostility.

Surrealist Writing

There is a world of porcelain cups and jarring bells in the land of Gone For Good where an alphabet of worms spells wisdom through the soil for everyone or no-one to read. Watch the chimera glow with eternity and serenity. Come with me to the upper rooms of experience where sunlight glows across the floor like a river of gold. Wait for the moment that sound leads us to the pinprick of time where your mind chimes with mine in perfect harmony.

The earth is hard with flint but if you strike it with the right tool you can make it sing.

Love's Lost Labourer

             Jake grabbed the bucket of plugs from the van and caught site of Mr Werner. Usually he was gone before they pulled up for a days work, leaving only clothes on the bedroom floor and a whiff of aftershave.He kissed his wife goodbye, the kind of kiss that wouldn’t wake a baby. She offered her cheek to receive the gift but seemed to resent it’s giving, her arm's remained crossed as if trying to keep herself in. 

           Jake didn’t get it. These rich people who had everything, who built themselves ivory towers to live in but couldn't raise so much as a smile. You’d think they would be happy. ‘Money do’n’t buy owa happiness Jake’ he heard his Mam’s voice strong in his head. Even in his head she couldn’t not betray her routes, a Jordie through and through .Mam. She was a one, forever nagging with love- ‘Are youse gonna be a useless article all your life?’ No Mam,all I want to do is sleep in peace when the day is done he answers her in his head.
           He stroked his whiskers watching the Aston Martin disappear down the drive in a plume of gravel-shot and dust then moved back through to the extension, just one little room and the biggest plans. There is an ostentatious stink of wealth from the marble floors and gold mosaic crest on the floor to the bling mirrored bar that would look less out of place in a swanky nightclub. There is a huge lockable grille at the left to house his collection of historic whiskies. If Jake could afford whisky he’d want to be able to drink it not lock it away. Each to their own.

          He strolled over to the sunken jacuzzi and addresses the loose wiring. The postman arrived with all the usual flyers  and junk. As she took the delivery and floated dreamily into her study a smile played across Mrs Werner’s face, one Jake had not seen before. He watched her through the trifold door that was open to the decking between them and watched as she caressed the pages of a long letter smiling to herself. He was brought back to earth with a bump from his imaginings as  Mat came in to the room and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Why -I Jake man. How ya doing son? You was away with the fairies man. What’s gan on?”

“Her. Look. She gets a long letter, sends back a postcard, all coy like.”

“There must be a boy for this girl, hey man? You canna deny she’s a looker and theres no love lost with hisself.Where's the harm of finding happiness. He needs to grow some common sense if you ask me or she’ll walk. A girls not interested in how big yer whisky collection is if you know what I mean.”

"I’d rather not have the grief man, keep it simple. Sleep in peace when the day is done.”

"I, youse would say that man. But you wait. One day that lightning bolt is gonna strike and you’ll be putty in her hand."