creative writing: letter to George

Dear George,

I thought I would write you a story. I met this guy a few months back or maybe years, I don't know. Whenever I try to remember I start coughing up weird turquoise steam.

I met him when I was on my annual walk in a deciduous forest. I go just before the winter when all the leaves have fallen and it makes a pleasing sound when you step on them. This particular forest is special, when you turn around two times anticlockwise a mysterious music starts to play. I call it String trio no. 5 in C minor. I believe Beethoven has a similar one. We used to be friends, Beethoven and I, I would read oriental recipes to him but then he went deaf and our friendship lost its magic. He died a few months after the last recipe. Moon cakes. He couldn’t remember the amount of red azuki beans to put in so he accidentally overdosed. It was a Monday.

If you turn around three times clockwise while patting your right shoulder with your left ring finger, Bach's Sonatas and partitas for solo violin start to resonate in between the trees. Me and Bach used to be friends too. He would paint my face as the notes. In some of his late pieces if you look close enough, generally using a quality magnifying glass or a little microscope, you will see my miniature faces instead of the note heads.

This time I tried something else. I turned around two times clockwise and pushed my nose like a car horn with my right palm. The forest went quiet and a dim turquoise light appeared. I came closer and realised it was a man in a dark beige Sherlock-Holmes overcoat, hovering peacefully above the ground. I couldn't see his face. He gestured something and started moving away sideways. I followed in the same manner. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. We walked for quite a while, probably the distance between Liverpool and Glasgow. He never turned around. It was growing dark. I felt like an bull in a china shop, stumbling and getting hit in the face by invisible branches. His steps were noiseless. I didn't find it strange back then but when I think about it now I know I should have escaped the very moment he started muttering words in a language that vaguely reminded me of French. He was saying “merde” quite a lot.

We got to a little opening. It was completely dark, one of those moonless nights. There was something big and pink in front of us. I was surprised to recognise my old felty hat that I had lost eight years ago but twenty times bigger. “This is it,” he said without turning. The voice sounded oddly familiar. I was confused. “What's the point of taking me to my hat if I can't wear it?” I asked. “Go put it on,” he answered, moderately annoyed. There was something in his voice that made me trust him. I approached the hat and touched it. It felt the same, maybe a little more asperate. I stood there not quite knowing what to do. The man was nervously stomping on the ground. He had obviously somewhere else to be. I tried to figure out what I was expected to do, I racked my brains but that only made me realise I forgot to iron my socks that morning. I just stood there in that awkward position, my right hand on the hat. “If you do a handstand it will look like a boat,” he exhaled loudly. I was saddened by the fact that I didn't think of it myself. I tried to do a handstand but unfortunately I was never really good at it. My arms were too weak and I hit my head a few times. The man was frowning and gesturing wildly. He was furious because I didn't understand. I gave him an apologetic look. He turned around. I could see his face now.

Turns out it was you.

I must say I am a little surprised. You smile and we talk about Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and how we should perform it in the London Underground. It's hard to set the date, you're still trying to speak French. After a while you get bored. We go home, I take the hat with me. At home you make me a cup of tea. We're sitting at the dining table and I get lost in thought. I am knitting my brows. I say: “George, we have a problem. The hat doesn't go with my burgundy winter coat.” You look at me sympathetically. We doze off.

I dream about 18^th century paintings and brain surgery, you dream about hair dye. In the morning we discuss the plan how to invade the London Underground with our music, you suggest we pretend it's the 1970s but I never really liked hippies. I do the laundry hoping the hat gets smaller with washing. We go buy a new coat. It's green. When we come back the washing machine is still going. I open it after it finishes with a roaring sound. The hat is the perfect size but it's purple now. It reminds me of the one aunt Eliza gave me when I was little. I hated it, it was itchy and I didn't want to have a purple head. It also doesn't go with either of my coats. I throw it out the window.

You make beef stew and we dine together like old times. I'm a fan of your roasted vegetables, you like my trifle. We converse about the civil commotions in the Middle East. You claim the problem is religion, I say it's the US. I have a quick google to prove you wrong. It works and I am squirming with joy. You sit by the piano and play the Fifth Symphony. It's in C minor.

We then go to sleep.

creative writing: water

His feet touched the ground after half an hour of intensive flying. The wings of the little plane made of durable metal covered the sun for a minute. He looked up at the sky. It was turning pink. He took off his sunglasses and fixed his sight on a large flight of mosquitos that was quietly buzzing a few yards away. How fast, how gross, how unimportant they were to him. He could smell the melting asphalt and admired the perfect straight lines of white paint, the arrows and the black wheel marks that spoiled the flawlessness and yet made it so perfect. Made it so human. The airport was almost empty. There were about four other planes, same as his, spread across the hangar in comfortable distances. He felt good. He always did after flying.

“Time to go Mark” It was the voice of the co-pilot. Mark hated him for it, for spoiling his moment. He grabbed his bag and started walking towards the tower. There was only a couple of things he needed to do before he was done for the day. He opened the door and took the steps, two at a time. The remains of the ecstasy were still there. Once he was inside the tower room he got undressed. He grabbed the plain white towel that smelled of bio wash and proceeded to the bath shower. He liked the feeling of water on his skin. A hot shower would recharge him. He stood there, the water flowing and slowly flooding the bath. He turned the tap to the hottest temperature. The water started to burn his skin, leaving it red and irritated. He just stood there watching the steam move under his breath, watching the drops slide down the glass and disappear forever. He decided to take his time and plugged the bathtub. It was filling up quickly.

Mark lied down. He was looking outside the window, staring at the the pink sky. It was open and there was a little air draft. It got tangled up in his hair with a soft whistle. He let his mind wander off. He felt at peace. The bath was full now but Mark didn't stop the water. His thoughts were too loud for the silence that would arrive. It was like the sound of rain. The bath was large and he started sliding down, inch by inch. He submerged.

Everything is amplified underwater. Everything sounds different. Mark's eyes were closed so that he could fully focus on the sound. He tapped his fingers on the sleek walls of the bath changing the rhythm every few seconds. He unsealed his mouth and let out an air bubble. He opened his eyes and focused them on the white ceiling and the yellowness of the bathroom light. It was blurry. His eyes started to sting and he could feel them getting red from the chlorine. He blinked a couple times. It was the only movement he now allowed himself. He was holding still so that the motion of his body wouldn't cause the water to plop. All he wanted to hear was the murmuring tap. He turned his brain off and it became blank. Clean.

Mark felt strangely disconnected from his body. He could still feel the little wavy movement of the water on his skin. It was like silk. Almost not there. Invisible shield. His lungs started filling up with water. It slowly creeped in tingling his insides. It was painful at first but then it didn't matter. He was lying there defencelessly with no protection on hand. He took a deep watery breath and closed his eyes.

It was like he had fallen asleep.

creative writing: I don't feel like dancing tonight

Today is my Birthday. Is it October 19^th. For many of you Birthdays are the days when you have a good enough reason to go out and celebrate. For me it's no different than any other day. It only reminds me how little friends I've got. None, to be precise.

I suppose my disadvantage is that I'm not pretty. I am not ugly, don't get me wrong, but I'm no ideal of beauty. I'd be lying if I said I didn't mind. Of course I'd love to be good looking and have people stand in line to be friends with me. Everybody wants to be friends with pretty people and I am the same so I guess I can't objurgate. 

I light up a candle on the cake I got earlier today.  I lied to the man in the bakery and said it's for a friend's surprise party. I always lie to strangers. 

I think of a mature wish to make. 

Birthdays are my least favourite days of the year. It didn't always use to be like this but I can't exactly remember when it changed. It's all a little blurry.

I close my eyes and blow the candle. Dad has already called me today to wish me Happy Birthday so the apartment is completely quiet. I grab the sound system remote and put it back down immediately. The silence is somehow comforting.

creative writing: the collector

So I promised people and mainly myself that I will put up my creative writing piece. This is basically a first draft, and it definitely needs some work, anyway, what do you say?

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The reason why I'm telling you about this person is not because he is handsome, has great charm, style, has lots of money or a superhero ability. He is very ordinary, really. He is searching. He is a collector. To tell the truth, he doesn't know what he is looking for. Sometimes he just walks the streets of his hometown with no apparent intention and looks into the shops through the big wide windows. His favourite ones are hairdressers. He is obsessed with hair.

He has always felt passionate about good hair. Long and shiny. And the smell of freshly washed hair makes him ecstatic. What he always hated was that however many hair products he used, each time the nice smell would evaporate in less than two hours. Whenever someone passed him on the street, and it was usually a woman, he would turn around and imperceptibly sniff the air. He could tell if the person washed their hair that morning or the night before. He didn't even have to see it.

Once, as he was walking around lost in his thoughts, his senses became alert. He closed his eyes. It was the most delightful conditioner he has never smelt. It was the perfect mix of warm milk and honey odour and cinnamon, it reminded him of that little bakery he never failed to avoid, simply because of the fact that it was too appealing. He opened his eyes. He looked around. Suddenly he thought this was too good to be true. Right about then he spotted her. She was about 30 metres in front of him, cycling carelessly. He caught a glimpse of her exactly a second and a half before she got lost behind the corner. First, he thought about chasing her but he knew better. The town's population was neither small nor too big but he wasn't worried about not seeing her again. She stood out. It was just after 2 o'clock on Tuesday in early March and although he didn't realise it, it was the day when his life started making sense.