It was the continuation of the diet she had been on for four months now. Every time he looked across the office she was there- snacking on something new, green and tasteless.
“I've put on a kilo! I’ve put ON a kilo! After four months of this”, she yelled.
“Jeez, don’t worry too much. I would kill to gain a kilo”, Loic said.
“Yeah, right. I really appreciate your comments”, she retorted and sat back down.
Something was different about Nat today. Things had been changing lately. Something was taking place in her life. It was something that hadn’t really happened before, and it was a long time coming. She was doing that thing- getting her life in order- or something. Her approach had been all wrong, and her self-perception misguided, and now- NOW- things were starting to look up.
Nat was having a lot more fun in a lot more ways. And a lot of fun in one particular way with a certain someone. A certain someone called Michael, an Irish boy she had met some time ago. And this certain someone seemed to be QUITE enjoying Nat’s new methods in the ways of fun.
But I digress.
Something was different about Nat today. Things had indeed been looking up, and to pepper this statement with a healthy IT manager-sized dose of logic, things still definitely were looking up when compared to the dark old days of only months before. But today something was not right with her.
Nat glanced at her phone for the fourth time since printing out a picture of Billie Holliday only 15 minutes earlier.
Still no response.
“How can I be back here again? After everything that’s happened, I’m reduced to looking at my phone every time the light reflects off it, thinking he’s texted. Pathetic”.
Nat was bothered. She had done something bad. She didn’t mean to do it, but the end result was that she had seen Michael turn away and slam the door to his car as he backed out of the driveway, and this bothered her very much.
"He just wants me to be honest. Pooh pooh. I've spent my whole life not being honest about my feelings, least of all to the people I care about, and NOW I have to know every emotion I feel about something the second it happens. Well it's not that easy! Maybe he should try some fucking understanding". Nat was very committed to her sotto voce muttering, having been classically trained as an alto.
She pulled out a celery stick, and as the bitterness stained her tongue, she tried to be honest to herself as a sort of exercise. To do so, she minimised the Wikipedia page opened to the entry on Hieronymus Bosch and opened Notepad.
“Hmmmmm. OK”. And she began to type.
1- I hurt Michael
2- I didn't mean to hurt him, but that probably doesn't matter
3- I want him to call me back
4- I want him to call me back so I can explain
5- I want him to call me back so I can tell him I love him
6- I want to tell him I'm a silly bitch who sometimes does awful things and that that's not likely to change
7- I want him to know why I said what I said
8- I want him to smile at me again
9- I want him between my legs again
10- I will never be perfect and I want to love me for who I am- stupid Nat with a chubby arse
“That last one doesn’t really seem to fit”, she thought out loud, puzzled.
“Meh”.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
My Name is Blue Van Meer: Diary Entry 2009 85 by Aylma Pessl
You may recall that my only previous romantic liaisons had been with the burly, meat-headed, turn-coat Milton. Our brief, yet passionate (at least on my side, he was more like the un-interested prom date (see poor, simple and happy Zach) kiss was my longest foray into the oral cavity. I remember it well, my tongue slipping and sliding around like a dying snake, muscles contorting violently as it’s life faded away. Left and then up; and I could taste his filling. In hindsight, it was the hallmark of the amateur, of the first timer.
And it was wonderful.
I wanted my first kiss with Rudy to be better. Less sliping and slidin, more controlled, slipping and sliding.
Rudy was in my South American “politics” class (Insurgency and Iconic Photography: L’amerique du sud [Sorry Dad, I never bothered to ask why the class title was in French]). We were not exactly chatting lately, but we acknowledged each other. The knowing look, “I know you and you know me and I wish you would speak to me because I don’t think I have the courage to make the first move” (see Chapter 13 in Building Long Lasting Relationships by Tez MacNamara, 2004). But it was time for some action. It was time to think, to be inspired. It was time for my Vince Lomabardi moment.
I decided to go for the “I’m in a hurry, intelligent women wearing spectacles who left her pen at home” technique. Flawless.
I saw my prey coming down the corridor. He was dressed a little differently than his normal vogue. Today he wore an un-tucked(!!) black, short sleaved shirt and neat pants combination. I was hovering behind a door when I saw him duck into class. I locked in and moved after him.
Floating a short distance beyond him, I almost had to shove a rather pink looking Clare Ridgedale out of the way as I sat next to him. We greeted each other. I felt a little breathless but managed to suppress it to engage in this tantalizing back and forth.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Mesmorizing, I know.
I began searching for my “missing” pen (see Mating Rituals of the Extinct Pareabolis Dictus – A bird for All occasions by Dr. Stephan Finine, 1923. Pay particular attention to the Chapter 2, 6 and the last section of Chapter 9). I unzipped this and slapped that, and made the most racket I could muster. He paid attention; I could feel his eyes on me. Finally, just when things started to get rather “lairy” (see I Predict a Riot, Kaiser Chiefs), he offered his pen to me.
“Thanks.”
Another witty, intelligent offering from Blue Van Meer.
We sat in silence for the remainder of the class. Our hour ended, and off we both headed, towards the only exit. He hesitated for a moment, and turned to face me. Before he could utter a sound, I thanked him for his pen.
‘No problem,’ he said with a smile. I wanted to tell him that it was just about the worse Biro I had ever had the pleasure of using, and that I would probably have to swing past the Department of Extinct Languages in order to translate the scratches in my note-book. I wanted to say that there was no place for a green Biro in college. I wanted to tell him that he was a little too thin. I wanted to tell him he was cute. So cute.
But I handed it over and mentioned that next time, he could borrow my pen.
‘Sorry…?’
My cheeks flushed red at this point - they are red right now, scrawling furiously this tale of the time Rudy asked me out – I tried to think of something amazingly funny and witty to cover the rather odd offering.
‘Ah, I was referring to a letter that Bryon wrote to Mary Shelley before she wasted the entire world’s time writing that horrid book of her’s, Frankenstein. He was responding to her difficulty in putting an idea down on paper and he suggested she look to the classics and take something from them.’
‘Blue, I am a little confused by what the point you are evidently trying to make...’ – Okay, he didn’t actually say this, but if he had I would probably have jumped him there and then.
‘Well, Bryon suggested she borrow from the classics and that she could “borrow” a “quill” from him.’
Rudy listened patiently to my elaborate fabrication. And politely.
‘I see… Blue, would you like to get a coffee or something?’
I cancelled my appointment at the Department of Extinct Languages.
And it was wonderful.
I wanted my first kiss with Rudy to be better. Less sliping and slidin, more controlled, slipping and sliding.
Rudy was in my South American “politics” class (Insurgency and Iconic Photography: L’amerique du sud [Sorry Dad, I never bothered to ask why the class title was in French]). We were not exactly chatting lately, but we acknowledged each other. The knowing look, “I know you and you know me and I wish you would speak to me because I don’t think I have the courage to make the first move” (see Chapter 13 in Building Long Lasting Relationships by Tez MacNamara, 2004). But it was time for some action. It was time to think, to be inspired. It was time for my Vince Lomabardi moment.
I decided to go for the “I’m in a hurry, intelligent women wearing spectacles who left her pen at home” technique. Flawless.
I saw my prey coming down the corridor. He was dressed a little differently than his normal vogue. Today he wore an un-tucked(!!) black, short sleaved shirt and neat pants combination. I was hovering behind a door when I saw him duck into class. I locked in and moved after him.
Floating a short distance beyond him, I almost had to shove a rather pink looking Clare Ridgedale out of the way as I sat next to him. We greeted each other. I felt a little breathless but managed to suppress it to engage in this tantalizing back and forth.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Mesmorizing, I know.
I began searching for my “missing” pen (see Mating Rituals of the Extinct Pareabolis Dictus – A bird for All occasions by Dr. Stephan Finine, 1923. Pay particular attention to the Chapter 2, 6 and the last section of Chapter 9). I unzipped this and slapped that, and made the most racket I could muster. He paid attention; I could feel his eyes on me. Finally, just when things started to get rather “lairy” (see I Predict a Riot, Kaiser Chiefs), he offered his pen to me.
“Thanks.”
Another witty, intelligent offering from Blue Van Meer.
We sat in silence for the remainder of the class. Our hour ended, and off we both headed, towards the only exit. He hesitated for a moment, and turned to face me. Before he could utter a sound, I thanked him for his pen.
‘No problem,’ he said with a smile. I wanted to tell him that it was just about the worse Biro I had ever had the pleasure of using, and that I would probably have to swing past the Department of Extinct Languages in order to translate the scratches in my note-book. I wanted to say that there was no place for a green Biro in college. I wanted to tell him that he was a little too thin. I wanted to tell him he was cute. So cute.
But I handed it over and mentioned that next time, he could borrow my pen.
‘Sorry…?’
My cheeks flushed red at this point - they are red right now, scrawling furiously this tale of the time Rudy asked me out – I tried to think of something amazingly funny and witty to cover the rather odd offering.
‘Ah, I was referring to a letter that Bryon wrote to Mary Shelley before she wasted the entire world’s time writing that horrid book of her’s, Frankenstein. He was responding to her difficulty in putting an idea down on paper and he suggested she look to the classics and take something from them.’
‘Blue, I am a little confused by what the point you are evidently trying to make...’ – Okay, he didn’t actually say this, but if he had I would probably have jumped him there and then.
‘Well, Bryon suggested she borrow from the classics and that she could “borrow” a “quill” from him.’
Rudy listened patiently to my elaborate fabrication. And politely.
‘I see… Blue, would you like to get a coffee or something?’
I cancelled my appointment at the Department of Extinct Languages.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
A fall from that height will only break your ankles… by Sebastien de Robillard
A fall from that height will only break your ankles…
Josh was on the brink of something bad. Something horrible. The night had not worked out as well as he wished, and he was looking for comfort. And not necessarily in the wrong places. In fact, the night had turned out rather well, but that didn’t seem to matter.
He had put together the evening a few months earlier, organising the bands to play. The budget for advertising was larger than usual, and he and a friend had splashed posters near and around The Fernace a few weeks prior to the event. Josh was hoping a few hundred might turn up, but would settle an even hundred.
The night had proceeded along splendidly. The rain had cleared, and the hundred or so turned up, and everyone was in good spirits. The bands played loud and were energetic, but Josh just stood still. Everyone was in good spirits. Everyone but Josh of course. Standing near the bar, he checked his watch again. He seemed to be checking it constantly he thought. Why? I have no where to go. He looked again. 9:23 PM it read. He moved away from the bar and walked round the back, to the restricted area. Up the stairs he marched towards the roof. He unlocked the door, and closed it behind him.
The night was chilly, and Josh appreciated this. He enjoyed the slight sting on his bare arms. It looked like it was going to rain. He lit a cigarette and cupped his beer tighter. Josh did not understand why he felt like he felt. Why the melancholy was consuming his body and time so much lately?
His pocket vibrated. A text from his girlfriend. Sarah was on her way, and should be there in approximately 5 minutes, it read. She wrote out ‘approximately’. Josh shook his head.
He had fluffed through the afternoon, yelling and cussing as was his regular habit. He had been excited about the show he said. He couldn’t wait for tonight he said. He can remember lying. Liar after liar after liar.
He stood on the edge of the roof. It was only one story high. It wouldn’t kill him. It would be painful, and more annoying than anything else, but it would not kill him.
His phone vibrated again. A call this time.
“Hey Josh.”
“Hey Sarah.”
“What’s wrong babe?”
“Nothing Sarah.”
“Where are you?”
“On the roof.”
“Well come down for a smoke.”
“Be there in a sec.”
And then he jumped.
Josh was on the brink of something bad. Something horrible. The night had not worked out as well as he wished, and he was looking for comfort. And not necessarily in the wrong places. In fact, the night had turned out rather well, but that didn’t seem to matter.
He had put together the evening a few months earlier, organising the bands to play. The budget for advertising was larger than usual, and he and a friend had splashed posters near and around The Fernace a few weeks prior to the event. Josh was hoping a few hundred might turn up, but would settle an even hundred.
The night had proceeded along splendidly. The rain had cleared, and the hundred or so turned up, and everyone was in good spirits. The bands played loud and were energetic, but Josh just stood still. Everyone was in good spirits. Everyone but Josh of course. Standing near the bar, he checked his watch again. He seemed to be checking it constantly he thought. Why? I have no where to go. He looked again. 9:23 PM it read. He moved away from the bar and walked round the back, to the restricted area. Up the stairs he marched towards the roof. He unlocked the door, and closed it behind him.
The night was chilly, and Josh appreciated this. He enjoyed the slight sting on his bare arms. It looked like it was going to rain. He lit a cigarette and cupped his beer tighter. Josh did not understand why he felt like he felt. Why the melancholy was consuming his body and time so much lately?
His pocket vibrated. A text from his girlfriend. Sarah was on her way, and should be there in approximately 5 minutes, it read. She wrote out ‘approximately’. Josh shook his head.
He had fluffed through the afternoon, yelling and cussing as was his regular habit. He had been excited about the show he said. He couldn’t wait for tonight he said. He can remember lying. Liar after liar after liar.
He stood on the edge of the roof. It was only one story high. It wouldn’t kill him. It would be painful, and more annoying than anything else, but it would not kill him.
His phone vibrated again. A call this time.
“Hey Josh.”
“Hey Sarah.”
“What’s wrong babe?”
“Nothing Sarah.”
“Where are you?”
“On the roof.”
“Well come down for a smoke.”
“Be there in a sec.”
And then he jumped.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Falls Festival by Atticus.
Stand in the crowd. Wait in anticipation for the band you've all come to see. Friends shift restlessly. Breath fogs in front of your faces. The sound checks are lost amongst the chatter, disappear between the giggles. Expectations build; the crowd lifts and swells as one.
Stop.
Pause for a moment.
Imagine the heartbeats that surround you. The rhythym that throbs and pulses and underlies your very existence here, in this moment. All other senses fade as the sound sharpens. It fills your ears and prods the edges of your skull. Thousands of hearts, all beating, all around. Including your own. You take a breath.
The band begins.
Stop.
Pause for a moment.
Imagine the heartbeats that surround you. The rhythym that throbs and pulses and underlies your very existence here, in this moment. All other senses fade as the sound sharpens. It fills your ears and prods the edges of your skull. Thousands of hearts, all beating, all around. Including your own. You take a breath.
The band begins.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
My Name is Blue Van Meer - Diary Entry 2009 83.2 by Aylma Pessl
My face is tingling with tingl-ation and brightness. My cheeks burn red, and my bellow swooshies up and down and my… well, I fell great everywhere. Is this what acid feels like dear Sebastien? A great, wonderful tingl-ation and brightness?
I wanted to scream and scream some more.
Wait, and stop dear Blue. I don’t know how to properly express myself in this situation. A truly, magnificent…thing to be honest. For an example please…oh my god. I cannot find a suitable reference to express my current state of joy.
Oh my I am flushed.
I wanted to scream and scream some more.
Wait, and stop dear Blue. I don’t know how to properly express myself in this situation. A truly, magnificent…thing to be honest. For an example please…oh my god. I cannot find a suitable reference to express my current state of joy.
Oh my I am flushed.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Stoker's Horror Blog by Steven Rogers - Part 18: Where ARE the Wild Things?
Rec and I went to see the new Spike Jonze film, the much anticipated Where the Wild Things Are. Overall, I must say I enjoyed the film, but for a full review, check out my blog.
The cinema was rather empty, except for a few single men. They all looked like they were clutching their safety blankets, or pictures of their mum. They all stayed and watch the entire closing credits, as I did, and as we walked out – Rec, me and a few single, lonely men – at least one commented on the brilliance of the film to no one in particular. I looked back at him, and nodded, hoping to perhaps start a conversation (I figured it could be good for my review to see what unemployed men thought) but he could only repeat the comment and turn away from me. His eyes looked red.
I looked at Rec and rolled my eyes. She didn’t notice, as usual, and we sauntered outside where we ran into Matt. Good, old fucking Matt. He was recently broken up again. Again. And he needed some counselling.
We sat down together – some place that served Lavazza Coffee (gross, sick, puke) and he started going on about his ex and their relationship and God knows what else. I tuned out. My coffee came and I drank that bastard down.
‘She was never there for me, not like you Rec. You too Steve. Always off…’ I turned away. Rec looked at him – bleeding heart – and put her hands on his. He reciprocated. I butted in; he was always hitting on Rec.
‘In my opinion Matt, she wasn’t worth much anyway. You only dated her for a month or so...’
‘…it was four actually.’
‘Yeah, okay, whatever. Anyway, she didn’t mean anything so, you need to just get the fuck over it.’
‘Matt, just ignore him,’ Rec said. She glared at me. I got up,
‘I need to make a quick call, I will be back in a jiffy.’ As I walked away, Matt asked the following question to my lovely Rec,
‘Is he still persisting with that horrible film review blog?’
I went to Borders and lamented the poorly organised comic book section, and so much Manga. Poor, so poor. I procrastinated there for as long as I could, and then found them again at the café, both looking rather light-hearted, as if they had been laughing. Laughing a lot.
‘…and you should have read his review about There Will Be Blood,’ Rec burst out laughing. They seemed to be rather jolly.
‘That film was brilliant,’ Matt said.
‘I know, but Steve… you know Steve. Oh hello there Steve.’ She looked at me, and then returned to Matt, ‘He tore it apart. Well, he tried to tear it apart. He could only do so as much as he could understand the film. The review was terrible.’ Matt burst out laughing and touched Rec (probably for the umpteenth time).
‘Listen,’ I said sitting down, ‘It was a well made film, sure, but it was boring as hell. Why was it so slow, and what was with the performance of Day-Lewis? So ridiculous…’
Matt counted, ‘How can you say that Steve? It was amazing. One of the best films I have ever seen. So masterful, and brilliant. Daniel Day-Lewis was amazing in that role, and how he missed out on the Oscar…’
‘..Oh Oscars, why is everything measured by Oscars.’
‘Thank you Steve, for interrupting. It was a superbly made film, so reminiscent of Kubrick. The score as well, was breathtaking in its ability to add to the story telling…’
‘I hate it when you see that guy,’ I later said to Rec. She was brushing her teeth at the time. ‘Not only is he a loser – he can’t stay in a relationship for more than 6 minutes – he is constantly hitting on you. He touches you, and the way he looks at you… I fucking hate it.’ Rec glared at me, and washed her mouth out. As she walked out of the bathroom, she said, ‘Steve, I hate it when you talk to me when I’m brushing my teeth.’ She went into our room, and slid into bed.
‘Do you not agree though? He has a thing for you?’ She kept ignoring my comments, making herself comfortable. She grabbed her book. I took my shirt off.
‘He’s a nice guy Steve, he has trouble with women,’ she then looked at me mischievously, ‘and can you blame him for liking me?’ Rec was trying to make light of the situation, but I wasn’t hanging around for that.
‘Yes. I can. There are millions of women out there. You’re mine. He can go like someone else.’
‘Are we a little jealous there?’
‘Well, yes, I am jealous. I am… I’m… he is a good looking man, in pain, women love that shit. Their hearts melt and they explode in cum everywhere.’
She looked at me in disgust, ‘Steve, you are a fucking animal sometimes.’
‘My point is, women love that sad dog shit. They love it. They want to take the man into their arms and let cry a little and then fuck him!’ I was starting to sweat.
‘You have no idea what women want. Steve, this argument is as flawed as your review of District 9…’
‘…Why do you have to bring that up?’ I yelled.
I stood there, exasperated. Rec put her book down and decided to do what she had to do.
‘Shut up you idiot and listen to me! You have no idea what you are arguing for, or against. You think you’re ideas, or better yet, prejudices are the truth, are fucking gospel. You assume the world is ordered into the Right, Wrong and Fucking-Steve-Says-So. It doesn’t work that way.’
She ripped the blanket off and lept out of bed.
‘Yes, men with feelings are attractive, but so are burly men and men’s men and areshole men and ugly men and hot men and tall men and short men…’
‘..NOT short men!’
‘ … ALL types of men. Even a man like you –with the assistance of a great deal of alcohol, drugs and severe, extreme loneliness on my behalf - can be considered attractive.’
Ouch.
The cinema was rather empty, except for a few single men. They all looked like they were clutching their safety blankets, or pictures of their mum. They all stayed and watch the entire closing credits, as I did, and as we walked out – Rec, me and a few single, lonely men – at least one commented on the brilliance of the film to no one in particular. I looked back at him, and nodded, hoping to perhaps start a conversation (I figured it could be good for my review to see what unemployed men thought) but he could only repeat the comment and turn away from me. His eyes looked red.
I looked at Rec and rolled my eyes. She didn’t notice, as usual, and we sauntered outside where we ran into Matt. Good, old fucking Matt. He was recently broken up again. Again. And he needed some counselling.
We sat down together – some place that served Lavazza Coffee (gross, sick, puke) and he started going on about his ex and their relationship and God knows what else. I tuned out. My coffee came and I drank that bastard down.
‘She was never there for me, not like you Rec. You too Steve. Always off…’ I turned away. Rec looked at him – bleeding heart – and put her hands on his. He reciprocated. I butted in; he was always hitting on Rec.
‘In my opinion Matt, she wasn’t worth much anyway. You only dated her for a month or so...’
‘…it was four actually.’
‘Yeah, okay, whatever. Anyway, she didn’t mean anything so, you need to just get the fuck over it.’
‘Matt, just ignore him,’ Rec said. She glared at me. I got up,
‘I need to make a quick call, I will be back in a jiffy.’ As I walked away, Matt asked the following question to my lovely Rec,
‘Is he still persisting with that horrible film review blog?’
I went to Borders and lamented the poorly organised comic book section, and so much Manga. Poor, so poor. I procrastinated there for as long as I could, and then found them again at the café, both looking rather light-hearted, as if they had been laughing. Laughing a lot.
‘…and you should have read his review about There Will Be Blood,’ Rec burst out laughing. They seemed to be rather jolly.
‘That film was brilliant,’ Matt said.
‘I know, but Steve… you know Steve. Oh hello there Steve.’ She looked at me, and then returned to Matt, ‘He tore it apart. Well, he tried to tear it apart. He could only do so as much as he could understand the film. The review was terrible.’ Matt burst out laughing and touched Rec (probably for the umpteenth time).
‘Listen,’ I said sitting down, ‘It was a well made film, sure, but it was boring as hell. Why was it so slow, and what was with the performance of Day-Lewis? So ridiculous…’
Matt counted, ‘How can you say that Steve? It was amazing. One of the best films I have ever seen. So masterful, and brilliant. Daniel Day-Lewis was amazing in that role, and how he missed out on the Oscar…’
‘..Oh Oscars, why is everything measured by Oscars.’
‘Thank you Steve, for interrupting. It was a superbly made film, so reminiscent of Kubrick. The score as well, was breathtaking in its ability to add to the story telling…’
‘I hate it when you see that guy,’ I later said to Rec. She was brushing her teeth at the time. ‘Not only is he a loser – he can’t stay in a relationship for more than 6 minutes – he is constantly hitting on you. He touches you, and the way he looks at you… I fucking hate it.’ Rec glared at me, and washed her mouth out. As she walked out of the bathroom, she said, ‘Steve, I hate it when you talk to me when I’m brushing my teeth.’ She went into our room, and slid into bed.
‘Do you not agree though? He has a thing for you?’ She kept ignoring my comments, making herself comfortable. She grabbed her book. I took my shirt off.
‘He’s a nice guy Steve, he has trouble with women,’ she then looked at me mischievously, ‘and can you blame him for liking me?’ Rec was trying to make light of the situation, but I wasn’t hanging around for that.
‘Yes. I can. There are millions of women out there. You’re mine. He can go like someone else.’
‘Are we a little jealous there?’
‘Well, yes, I am jealous. I am… I’m… he is a good looking man, in pain, women love that shit. Their hearts melt and they explode in cum everywhere.’
She looked at me in disgust, ‘Steve, you are a fucking animal sometimes.’
‘My point is, women love that sad dog shit. They love it. They want to take the man into their arms and let cry a little and then fuck him!’ I was starting to sweat.
‘You have no idea what women want. Steve, this argument is as flawed as your review of District 9…’
‘…Why do you have to bring that up?’ I yelled.
I stood there, exasperated. Rec put her book down and decided to do what she had to do.
‘Shut up you idiot and listen to me! You have no idea what you are arguing for, or against. You think you’re ideas, or better yet, prejudices are the truth, are fucking gospel. You assume the world is ordered into the Right, Wrong and Fucking-Steve-Says-So. It doesn’t work that way.’
She ripped the blanket off and lept out of bed.
‘Yes, men with feelings are attractive, but so are burly men and men’s men and areshole men and ugly men and hot men and tall men and short men…’
‘..NOT short men!’
‘ … ALL types of men. Even a man like you –with the assistance of a great deal of alcohol, drugs and severe, extreme loneliness on my behalf - can be considered attractive.’
Ouch.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
CountDown by Kate Barnaby
10.
They stand on a balcony, in a Melbourne apartment, waiting with party blowers, poppers and sparklers. Both think about the year gone past, and the events that had taken place between them. So much said and done, so much left to say and do, both too shy to admit it.
9.
Their hands move closer together on the rails of the balcony. The night a few months earlier - it had started off with a major make-out session and ended with a food fight on Elizabeth Street - flashes back into their minds. She smiles at the memory, he scoffs out loud, “Remember when I got sausage roll in your hair?!”
8.
They were as close as brother and sister. And initially, that was their relationship. In the past few months, she had realised that she was falling for him, and wanted nothing more than to start a new year with him. He, who had been there for her. He, who she had scorned unintentionally, before his feelings were known to her. He stands there and accidentally blows his party blower while breathing out, and she laughs at the boyish grin that followed.
7.
He had loved her since the very beginning. Well, almost. He’d never been able to speak so freely to someone in such a short amount of time, but she fell for someone else. He was always there for her though. Their last kiss was at Christmas. She was drunk and upset and he was angry. He helped her into a cab, and they kissed again. He needed time. She would wait for him.
6.
They were no longer angry when she came back from her Christmas holiday. It was so easy to slip back into the comfortable friendship they had before the fight. Now there was this new vigour between them, they sat closer together, held hands or hugged or brushed against each other more often, and were making plans to go to the movies, to hang out and get stoned, and to, subconsciously, just be together. Although too embarrassed to be the first to say it out loud, they are happy.
5.
Others come out onto the balcony with champagne corks ready to fly, stumbling from the pre-countdown consumptions. She is pushed into him. “Shit!” he cries, “you jumped on my foot!” Silly, clumsy girl was always doing things like this by accident. A nice girl, not at all classy, but proud of that fact. She puts out her cigarette and hugs him to apologise. He kissed the top of her head in forgiveness, and rests his chin on the top of her head for a moment.
4.
He moves away from her but doesn’t let go of her hand. They stand subtly, secretly, holding hands on the balcony. Images run through their minds, past events and the wants of the future. They were laughing, play fighting, making love, making out, making nachos while drunk. They can feel what they think is just nervousness, drunkenness, but its more than likely an energy, a spark between them. He sees her smile out of the corner of his eye.
3.
It’s getting louder, more enthusiastic on the balcony. They both know now what they want, what is the natural progression of their lives. This is it, them, together, for now. He swallows a lump down his throat, and she quickly licks her lips to moisten them. They turn to look at each other, seconds dwindling down to a new year, a new decade.
2.
They stare at each other for no longer than an instant, but there is so much more there. A new year, a new love, a resolution of amazing existences for both of them. It’s about time, she thinks. He pulls her close, and in the dying seconds of the year, he smiles, and kisses her.
1.
They stand on a balcony, in a Melbourne apartment, waiting with party blowers, poppers and sparklers. Both think about the year gone past, and the events that had taken place between them. So much said and done, so much left to say and do, both too shy to admit it.
9.
Their hands move closer together on the rails of the balcony. The night a few months earlier - it had started off with a major make-out session and ended with a food fight on Elizabeth Street - flashes back into their minds. She smiles at the memory, he scoffs out loud, “Remember when I got sausage roll in your hair?!”
8.
They were as close as brother and sister. And initially, that was their relationship. In the past few months, she had realised that she was falling for him, and wanted nothing more than to start a new year with him. He, who had been there for her. He, who she had scorned unintentionally, before his feelings were known to her. He stands there and accidentally blows his party blower while breathing out, and she laughs at the boyish grin that followed.
7.
He had loved her since the very beginning. Well, almost. He’d never been able to speak so freely to someone in such a short amount of time, but she fell for someone else. He was always there for her though. Their last kiss was at Christmas. She was drunk and upset and he was angry. He helped her into a cab, and they kissed again. He needed time. She would wait for him.
6.
They were no longer angry when she came back from her Christmas holiday. It was so easy to slip back into the comfortable friendship they had before the fight. Now there was this new vigour between them, they sat closer together, held hands or hugged or brushed against each other more often, and were making plans to go to the movies, to hang out and get stoned, and to, subconsciously, just be together. Although too embarrassed to be the first to say it out loud, they are happy.
5.
Others come out onto the balcony with champagne corks ready to fly, stumbling from the pre-countdown consumptions. She is pushed into him. “Shit!” he cries, “you jumped on my foot!” Silly, clumsy girl was always doing things like this by accident. A nice girl, not at all classy, but proud of that fact. She puts out her cigarette and hugs him to apologise. He kissed the top of her head in forgiveness, and rests his chin on the top of her head for a moment.
4.
He moves away from her but doesn’t let go of her hand. They stand subtly, secretly, holding hands on the balcony. Images run through their minds, past events and the wants of the future. They were laughing, play fighting, making love, making out, making nachos while drunk. They can feel what they think is just nervousness, drunkenness, but its more than likely an energy, a spark between them. He sees her smile out of the corner of his eye.
3.
It’s getting louder, more enthusiastic on the balcony. They both know now what they want, what is the natural progression of their lives. This is it, them, together, for now. He swallows a lump down his throat, and she quickly licks her lips to moisten them. They turn to look at each other, seconds dwindling down to a new year, a new decade.
2.
They stare at each other for no longer than an instant, but there is so much more there. A new year, a new love, a resolution of amazing existences for both of them. It’s about time, she thinks. He pulls her close, and in the dying seconds of the year, he smiles, and kisses her.
1.
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