the stream

Barefoot on the banks of a stream I once knew long ago, I stared at the water, dark and blue below. What I was looking for - my face, my faith - I do not know. All I found was a bucket, brown weeds and a bottle without a message, so I slowly dipped a toe into the dew, stirring the cool calmness into a song of circlets. The stream called for my whole body. 'Swallow me' I said and I slipped naked into her bed. 'Swallow me', but she would not. She proved to be shallow.

There are those among us who do not exist externally, but live internally. We don’t do, we are. We live, we love, we burn. The past is at our heels but our eyes, like Argus, are fixed on the horizon. We are creatures of possibility. Our dreams are not our desires but our reality, perhaps our truth.

shipwrecked

He looked into his glass, and watched the shadow of his head swim in the ruby below. Hadn’t he always cast himself as a martyr, as an outcast? Perhaps it was nothing more than that – a role he had been playing. Perhaps he was no different than anyone else. He shook his head. No – no. It couldn’t be. He had been an outcast. Hell, he’d even had stones thrown at him for being a foreigner. He hadn’t made it all up. But it was true that he had latched unto his otherness, he had worn it as a badge of pride. Over the years he had instilled his life with a rich tragic motif. His otherness had been – still was – a crutch he could lean on in times of crisis. But it wasn’t his real identity. It wasn’t his true self. It had begun by being the persona he slipped on when he hurt. Now it had become much more, it was the thing around which he was building his whole identity. And that couldn’t be healthy.
He remembered something he had heard a preacher say about finding one’s identity in God. He remembered coming across something Emerson and Steinbeck had written about an “Oversoul”. Yes, people were connected with something wider than themselves, yes, they were connected with one another somehow, and perhaps in a deeper sense that they thought. But that didn’t help resolve the question of his identity. It just made things more complicated.
He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and lifted the glass to his lips.

by shamrock

crosswords

Tom walked into the usual café, sat at the usual seat and ordered the usual cup of coffee. He mechanically swung open his laptop and placed his fingers on the keyboard. He kept them there for what seemed to him like ages, but he didn't type anything. He caught his reflection in the screen. A pair of sad eyes stared back at him. Come on Tom, they seemed to be urging, get a grip of yourself. Write something. Anything. But nothing would come. Not even one word. Tom swore under his breath and slammed the computer shut. He scratched the back of his head. For the first time in months he looked round the café. The morning sun was coyly casting its light through the dusty windows. A lot of chairs were still stacked up on the tables. The place was empty, save for an old man filling in crosswords on yesterday's paper and a girl reading in the opposite corner of the café. She was wearing a purple dress, and Tom couldn't help looking at her long folded legs. She turned her head towards him, and he quickly looked down. He thought he would pretend to work at his computer, but he realized that he had closed it. He felt his ears burning. He raised his head again and pretended to stare out the window. From the corner of his eye he sensed that the girl was looking at him. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. He looked outside and focussed on a pigeon that was rummaging for food in front of the baker's across the street. After a while, he slowly turned his head back towards the girl. She was reading again, holding the book with one hand and playing with her hair with the other. God, she was so cute. How could girls be so cute without even realizing it, he thought. He wondered what she was reading. It looked like a novel. Was she a Hemingway girl, a fan of jazz and of postcard Paris? Or was she the Austen type, a lost soul, a romantic dreamer? Or was she both? He squinted, and tried to make out some of the words, but she was sitting too far away. He suddenly realized that she was looking at him. She smiled, and waved at him. He smiled back awkwardly. She raised the book and pointed at the title on the cover: The Brothers Karamazov. Tom raised his eyebrows and mouthed the word "impressive". They looked at each other for a while. Then they turned away and blushed. When they looked back at each other, they burst out laughing. The girl opened her mouth to say something, but she was interrupted:
"Hey, maybe you youngsters could help me out," said the old man without lifting his eyes from his newspaper. "Ten-letter word, Newton's laws. What could it be?"
 Tom and the girl looked at the old man, then at each other. They burst out laughing again. Tom turned to the old man. "I think the answer is attraction," he said. He looked back at the girl. She was looking down at the floor, and her face was bright red.
"Hm... attraction," muttered the old man. "I think you're right, kiddo. Can you help me with another one?"
But no answer came. The boy and the girl were standing in the middle of the room, lips locked.

by shamrock

dix heures

L'égouttement du robinet, le tac-tac-tac de l'horloge, bruits du quotidien qui hier la rassuraient, lui semblaient ce soir oppressants.  Elle retourna son oreiller brûlant pour la sixième fois et en profita pour regarder le réveil. Dix heures. Elle poussa un soupir. La nuit n'était toujours pas tombée. Elle pouvait encore clairement distinguer le blanc stérile du plafond et voir les cartes postales encadrées disposées sur les murs de manière parfaitement parallèle. Ce plafond et ces murs semblaient chaque jour se rapprocher. Un jour, je pourrais les érafler avec le bout des doigts, se dit-elle. Un jour, je pourrais les effleurer avec mon nez. Même le matelas semblait plus dur que la veille. Elle se retourna, tentant en vain de trouver une position plus confortable. Elle regarda son compagnon de lit. Il ronflait déjà. Il travaillait le lendemain. Le lendemain, elle se lèverait pour lui préparer le café, qu'il boirait à sept heure pile. Elle le regarderait manger trois tartines beurrées, puis il partirait au travail après lui avoir déposé un bisou sec sur les lèvres. A son retour, elle lui servirait le le dîner à sept heures, ils regarderaient tous les deux la télé jusqu'à dix heures moins dix, puis ils se coucheraient. Et les murs se seraient rapprochés davantage. Oh, de très peu, de quelques millimètres peut-être, mais ils se seraient rapprochés. Lui ne se serait aperçu de rien. Mais elle ne lui en voulait pas. Après tout, il lui avait apporté un appartement propre, de la stabilité, et de la compagnie. Mieux valait être accompagnée que seule, non? Et puis la vie avec lui était sûre, sans surprises, sans rebondissements, en un mot, calme. C'est pour cela qu'elle avait choisi de sortir avec lui. Elle l'avait trouvé mignon, et même si elle ne l'aimait pas, elle l'aimait bien. Elle avait même pris plaisir à adopter les rituels de l'amour, les « mon chéri », les « mon trésor » et le weekend annuel en couple dans un hôtel de province. Elle aimait jouer à l'hôtesse et inviter des couples d'amis, qu'elle regardait manger, avec ses mains sur les hanches et un sourire satisfait. Elle s'était même habituée à la cérémonie du vendredi soir; elle regardait le plafond blanc pendant qu'il lui faisait l'amour, et elle se félicitait d'avoir une vie sexuelle, comme tout le monde. Elle menait sa vie comme il le fallait, elle menait une vie calme.
Alors pourquoi les murs se rapprochaient-ils chaque jour?

by shamrock

Femme

Tu t'assieds. Tu soupires, tu te mordilles les doigts. Tu te relèves. Tu n'arrives pas à formuler tes pensées. Ta tête est lourde. Tu passes tes doigts dans les cheveux, en espérant que la douleur va bientôt passer. Tu vas et viens dans la chambre, comme un tigre en cage. Pendant une de tes rondes, tu aperçois ton visage, par hasard, dans le miroir. Le regard qui a croisé le tien pendant cette fraction de seconde ne te semble pas familier.  Tu retournes devant le miroir pour contempler ton image. Les yeux que tu vois paraissent bien trop vides, bien trop vifs pour être les tiens. Tu parcours avec les doigts le contour de tes yeux. Quelques rides y sont déjà gravées, vestiges d'une époque plus joyeuse. Mais tu n'est pas d'humeur à rire aujourd'hui. Tu songes à toutes ces catins des affiches à la peau pixelisée mais parfaite, à ces putains publicitaires qui te promettent une sexualité épanouie, un avenir glorieux, le Shangri-La même, à condition que tu achètes les yaourts, les crèmes de nuit, les voitures de leurs proxénètes. Toi, tout ce que tu recherches, c'est quelque chose d'authentique. De vrai. Tu te consoles d'être assez intelligente pour ne pas tomber dans leur piège, mais tu n'en sors pas indemne. Tu te sens trop maigre, trop ronde. Tes cheveux sont trop secs, trop gras. Tu ne te trouves jolie qu'en photo ou dans la pénombre. Tu as presque honte de ne pas écarter les jambes pour tous ceux qui te le demandent, même si tu as la conviction qu'une femme mérite plus que d'être une simple poupée. Les yeux qui te regardent curieusement dans le miroir sont devenus humides. Est-ce parce qu'ils ont trop vu? Ou n'ont ils pas vu assez? Tu n'en sais rien. Tes rêves de fillette ne se sont jamais réalisés; la princesse a pour robe une uniforme de supermarché, pour trône un siège pivotant. Ta demoiselle d'honneur est une caisse enregistreuse qui te nargue inlassablement. Les courtisans qui viennent solliciter tes bonnes grâces sont des clients, et donc des rois et des despotes. Le corps qui se tient devant toi est un corps de femme, mais les yeux qui regardent droit dans les tiens sont ceux d'une fillette. Tu les couvres de tes doigts et tu t'effondres dans ton lit, les joues ruisselantes de larmes.

She felt an urge to run. To run for the fields. To run for the trees. To feel under her feet something which wasn’t dead, which wasn’t tarmac, something which was organic, something real. Whatever that meant. She let her hair down. She stuck her hands in her pockets and pulled out her phone, her keys, her wallet. She gave a cry of alarm and threw them violently on the floor, as if they had burned her fingers. She walked out the door, leaving it unlocked and open. She started walking, fast, fast, her hair flying behind her like a black flag. Her eyes didn’t take in anything around her. Her ears were ringing. Her thoughts were mingling, intertwining voices, broken and desperate, convoluted and conspiring. She realized that she was in front of the train station. She walked past the ticket booth, ignored the protesting voice which told her to pay, to pay Miss, to pay. She stepped into the train just before the doors shut with a hiss and a sigh, found an empty seat, sat down and closed her eyes.


.

Billows of smoke rose lazily from a scarlet pout. The cigarette slipped to the right of the lips as they unfolded into a broad smile. The smoke vanished into the air, and two blue orbs appeared. The intruder stepped forward, a blonde in boots, with a purple dress and matching beret.

Alive

She stood barefoot, her back against the old oak tree. She shut her eyes. She dug her toes into the rich, welcoming earth which lay between the oak tree’s gnarly roots. They were warm in the primeval dust which had swallowed them up. She almost felt them grow, reach down deeper, further, closer to the timeless, abyssal mysteries. She slowly raised her arms above her head. She could hear the suave whispering of the leaves above her. The wind, evanescent lover, stroked her hair, caressed her soul. Her face glowed in the sun. She could feel its fingertips on her cheeks. She smiled. She knew at that moment that she was alone, utterly, fatally alone. But she was alive. And that was enough.

Extract from "Pot Pourri" #1

The cold sunshine failed to bring any warmth into Seamus's numb knuckles. The turfing iron seemed to be an extension of his own arm, as he bent over, putting pressure on the lug with his feet to break into the unyielding frozen earth. But the ground would not give in. His boot slipped on the lug, and the shaft of his instrument drove into his chest. Seamus fell to the ground, on his back. His tired body ached, but his eyes turned towards the lapis lazuli sky streaked with sheeplike clouds. Each cloud seemed to have a face of its own. They were all flocking westward to some unknown destination. Seamus felt left out from their ethereal exodus. He wondered what it would be like to walk upon them, jumping from cloud to cloud as if they were woolen stepping stones. He wondered if, from up there, he would see all of Hibernia. Her hills, her fields, her woods and her brooks. He would undoubtedly be able to have a clear view of Karsell Manor and its beautiful English garden. He would be able to watch Blanche as she sat in front of the pond, reading her beloved books. He thought he heard her soft luminous voice. A spring of fresh words, shining in the light of her lips, flowing, swimming towards his heart, winning it over, over and over again. Shining, flowing, swimming. Winning. Words. Clouds.
The earth shook under Seamus's head. He heard a clumping. He opened his eyes. Cruel hooves were beating the frozen ground. The stewart. Seamus tried to sit up, but his body would not move. Panic took hold of him. Only his head responded. He turned it to the right. The hooves were just a few inches from his face. He twisted his neck to look up at the black horse, which blew vapour out of its gaping nostrils into the cold air. Upon it was mounted a thin, pale man. His head was bare and his mouse-like nose gave way to a thin red moustache. "Get up off your ass, fenian", the stewart shouted, in a high-pitched voice and with a strong English accent. Seamus tried to move his arms and legs, but they would not respond. He looked up at the clouds, helplessly. "I said get up off your filthy fenian ass!"
"I can't, sir!"
"What's this?"
"I can't move, sir. I fell to the ground, and I think the cold has got to me."
"Humbug! You are just a lazy white nigger, like all the rest of you bloody Irish fools. Get up right away, or I will give you a taste of this crop."
Seamus could not move. The horse crop came down on his chest like a lightning bolt, again and again. He clenched his teeth. The stewart sneered, whipped his horse, and rode away. Seamus continued to stare at the clouds, wheezing. Each breath he drew left his chest in excruciating pain. He felt darkness closing in on him. God help me... God help me.

It was the smell of freshly baked soda bread that brought Seamus back to his senses. He opened his eyes. He was lying in a small bed. A quilt was pulled up to his chin. A peat fire diffused a warm but shy reddish light in the otherwise dark room. He could see the curvaceous silhouette of a young woman in the far side of the room, busying itself around what seemed to be a stove. He opened his mouth to call out her name, but instead was seized by a coughing fit. The girl immediatly ran up to his bedside.
"Seamus! Are ya all right?", she cried.
"Aye, Maire, I'm grand", Seamus managed to say between fits of coughing.
"Ya don't look grand to me, Seamus. That cough doesn't sound good. And you're as pale as death." Maire's voice sounded alarmed.
"Och don't you worry about me, Maire. I've been through far worse than this."
"Not worry? Did you see the bruises and wounds on your chest? The stewart gave you a beating again, didn't he?"
"Yes, he did. But..."
"I knew it." Maire's voice was angry now. "I knew it. I told you to keep out of trouble. You've been with that English girl again, haven't you? That's why Lady Karshell sent the stewart after you, isn't it? You reap what you sow, Seamus. That bastard is going to kill you someday. And you'll deserve it." Seamus coughed again, and tears started running down from Maire's pretty brown eyes. "I don't mean what I've just said, Seamus. You know I don't. It's just... It's just that I don't know why you go gallivanding after that girl. I don't know what you see in her. What does Blanche have that us Irish girls don't have?" Seamus shrugged his shoulders under the bedcovers. "Seriously, Seamus. I want to know."
"I honestly can't tell you. I just don't. But I know that I can't help it." By it, he meant the intense, passionate, debilitating love he felt for Blanche. Maire tried, in vain, to wipe her tears off her cheeks with strands of her long auburn hair. Seamus lifted his hand to her cheeks to help her. "Don't cry, Maire", he said softly. "You know we were never meant to be. We are too much alike, you and I. Or too different, I don't know which. I'm sure you'll find yourself a husband someday."
"Necer mind", Maire smiled. "I've been working on the land all day. And then taking care of you. I think I'm just tired."
"Not too tired to jig, I hope? Dan's cousin is staying with his family at the moment, and he's a damn good fiddler. He was supposed to play at the Cross Keys tonight."