the englishman

i know an english gentleman.  he lives near darlington, a place i do not know well, but am fond of nonetheless.  i met him nearly two years ago, at the train station.  it was merely a brief visit snatched on the journey from london to edinburgh.  my aunt and cousins and i hopped off the train and had tea with him and his wife.

when he was a boy, he would watch the planes that flew overhead during world war ii.  he knew them all by heart.  except one.  the plane that flew only at night.  many years later, he made use of the internet and found it.  the p61 black widow. 

he posted his puzzlement on a forum, my great uncle, who had been on the crew for one of the planes, responded, and a correspondence was established.  thanks to this seemingly coincidental connection, we had a new friend to make.

a tall, slender man with close-cropped silver hair and yellowed glasses.  a navy blue "woolly pully" sweater, dark trouseers, an army green coat.  a jaunty black cap, brimmed, trimmed with black braid.  his shoulder bag is also army green, with a spitfire printed on the flap.  twinkling eyes and a sweet smile.  he has seen much, done much, and seems good-natured about it all.

his wife is quieter, but just as sweet in her red wool coat with gold and enamel pins on the lapels.  her glasses are round, her curly brown hair is short and greying.

the smell of a story

the shower has moved on, carrying its fat droplets with it and leaving a moisture thick enough to see.  a smell of wet asphalt and a hint of cigarette smoke linger in the air, teasing my nostrils.  they hint at a story that is not my own, a story i can never read.

the out-of-context hipster

i sneak my hand around the table and snitch one of nathan's fries.  he doesn't notice, he's too busy wolfing his animal style burger.  i grin to myself, wondering what he would have done if he had caught me.  probably just glared in his 11 year old way.

i happen to glance up and i see a young man.  i study him for the few seconds it takes him to reach his seat at the table next to ours.  something about his face is intriguing.  sandy, tousled hair rests above lean, elegant bone structure.  his blue button-up shirt (chambray?) and the neckcloth lend him an air of "i'm not from around here."

he doesn't look the type, but hey - everybody loves in-n-out.

Mixed Gourmet Fruit

Ignoring the plate nearby, she stabs the fork into the plastic bowl of fruit.  She eats the cantaloupe first because there is too much of it.  Then the honeydew; she likes honeydew.  The blueberry is tasteless and the strawberry is sour.  She sits and stares idly out the window, twirling the fork in her hand.  Vague thoughts about sentences and American lit wander through her mind.  She glances down and finds a piece of mango.  This is something worth savoring.  She digs around for another piece, but there is only one more, so she eats it slowly and thinks about orange fruit and how nice it all is.  Cantaloupe, mangoes, clementines, oranges.  Oranges are redundant.  She tries the pineapple and it is sweet.  Several pieces later, she is snapping the lid back onto the container and reading the label.  "Pineapple (Costa Rica)."  She has a friend from Costa Rica.  There is a punctuation error, it should be "its," not "it's."  People are always putting apostrophes where they don't belong.  

seeing in black and white

curled up on the swing, swaying aimlessly in the breeze. unfinished thoughts wander through her mind. thoughts of american prose and black and white photos, thoughts of similar times gone by, thoughts of everything changing and nothing changing. time telescopes and in the grand scheme of things, it all looks the same. a smell hovers in the air, a smell of grass and sunshine and 20-year-old paperbacks.

clean windows

those who are dead are not dead, they're just living in my head

i move silently, putting my room back together.  silk flowers and old books, a glass lamp and a battered desk.  the door is open and the sky is grey and i shiver.  i go about opening windows and soon the whirr of a lawn mower and echoes of classical music are competing in my ears. chilled, i lift my head and for a moment i smell the sea.

Three Years Ago

The Cryptozoologist

I open the door gingerly, magazine tucked under my arm.  This building is new to me, I'm not entirely sure where I am.  Ah, the common room.  This is what I was looking for.  But there's already someone here, one of the residents.  She glances up as I slide into the dark room.  I claim a chair near the door and sit in silence, watching the end of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe with this college girl I've never met.

Joel had wanted a chance to talk to Swaagh, so he asked me if I minded adjourning for a bit.  I didn't.  He said there was a short story I should read, so he gave it to me, along with directions to the common room.  I'm always happy to read, so I came willingly.

Soon, the credits roll and she sits up to switch on the lamp.  She collects her dvd and smiles at me as she leaves.  I get up and take the vacated place on the couch.  It's wonderfully squishy.  Holding The New Yorker under the light, I find my place and settle in to read The Cryptozoologist for the first time.

grass-stains and citrus

the orange is smooth and fits in my hand.  i sit on my heels, balancing on the narrow strip of concrete surrounding what used to be the garden.  it is currently a mound of grass clippings, ashes from the fireplace, and rotting oranges.  i have been pulling weeds for the past hour.  i don't know why.  i didn't have to.  i wanted to.  i finished my work and was sitting in the grass and started absentmindedly tugging up the lanky stems of crabgrass.  i had a pile before i even noticed.  it rained the other day and the ground is still soft.  now my hands are grubby and grass-stained.

the sun is warm on my back while a breeze plays with my already messy hair.  it's peaceful out here.  quiet.  i dig my thumb into the top of the orange, slicing through and ripping off a chunk of the peel.  juice drips over my fingers and it stings my skin.  it's as if my hands are working automatically.  thumb sneaks under the peel, grips it against the side of my index finger, pulls until it tears away from the rest of the rind.  all in one memorized motion.  the accompanying sound strikes my ears and it's all too familiar.  part rip, part hiss.  a sharp, fleshy sound.

soon the ground is littered with chunks of peel, their white insides bright in the sunlight.  more juice is finding its way out, so i lift the orange to my lips and suck the fresh sweetness off the top.  i think the sun would taste like citrus.  i break the fruit in half and tear off a segment with my teeth.  it's sweet.  not the sweetest, these oranges are better for juicing, but it's fresh.  i continue tearing and eating.  the liquid is finding its way across my knuckles, trekking to my wrists.  i finish the last segment and look down at my hands.  grass-stained palms, juice dripping from my fingertips.  i smile, gloating a little to myself.  i live here.

The Armoury

I pushed open the door and stepped inside. A chill breeze blew in as the door swung shut behind me. A slim amount of light slid through the few windows, glinting on metal. I stared around, wide-eyed, trying to hide the grin spreading all over my face. Blades covered every possible space. Claymores hung nobly on the walls, cutlasses shouldered one another aside in barrels, broadswords silently demanded respect. Knives, daggers, and sgian dubhs jockeyed for position on every shelf. The low ceiling and the vast amount of sharp objects made the room seem smaller than it was. I kept my hands tight in my pockets and felt as if I should duck. Tartans and furs hung here and there, seemingly the only source of warmth in this cave of weaponry. I walked slowly to absorb everything. There was a dark man in one corner, polishing a rapier. He was dressed all in black, from his shirt with gathered sleeves to his trousers and knee-high boots. I knew he was watching me. I stopped to look at a sgian dubh, still keeping an eye on the man. He turned to place the rapier in a stand and I noticed his ponytail.  Studying the knife - short blade, handle crafted from a deer's antler - I smiled to myself and knew I would have a story to tell.

magic stamps britain

i sit here on my bed, folded into a neat bundle, my chin propped on my knee.  it seems all i can do is stare aimlessly at my computer screen and tap my thumbs rhythmically on the space bar.  occasionally, i break rhythm long enough to take a sip of my now cold tea or google "magic stamps britain" and read this article.


so much for travel writing.


i waste some more time.  rachel pops up in chat and asks me to watch a video she's working on.  "i need critical pre-screening audiences.  so... if you could....... do you mind watching it?  it's still in "rough" form, so what i'm mainly worried about is the story."


i'd be happy to.

mumford & sons radio

i lie stretched on the floor, my feet resting on the hearth, soaking in the warmth from the fire.  a plain white t's song thrums quietly from pandora, blending with the light, flat clatter of laptop keys.  it was sunny this morning, but the marine layer has since rolled in.  which is why we're holed up in the living room with a fire and tunes and typing.  pandora moves on to florence + the machine and my foot automatically picks up the beat.


we're going to the theater tonight, to see steel magnolias.  first, though, we shall pick up a couple of burritos for dinner and roam the island in our classy-casual clothes and capture photographs of loveliness.


mumford & sons play and i turn up the volume.


i feel like watching a hitchcock film.