The Imaginarium of Saor Alba

Painted Lady

When I was so ill, as only a man can be

A friend, she came calling, the pain slightly eased

Painted hands carried soup, tired eyes cried for brew

She smiles at me sweetly, if only she knew

Room softly lit by lava and flame

Laughing so hard, only causes more pain

Colours and shadows, they dance on the roof

She smiles at me sweetly, mustn’t tell her the truth

With verdant herb and Pink Floyd, we fall asleep closely

Not Gilmour, just breathing, I listen to mostly

I want to cry out, to shout and to scream

She smiles at me sweetly, painted lady of my dreams

In the morning, she’s gone, once again, all alone

Through confusion and anguish, I’m stripped to the bone

My universe’s fabric has been torn at the seam

No more sweet smiling.  My painted Lady was a dream

The Scream

The rain bounced upwards as it pounded the hard wooden boardwalk that ran the length of the beach that provided its travellers with a glorious view of the beautiful coastal bay.  Edvard stood leaning on the rail, staring out at the boats that although anchored, were being violently tossed around by the ferocious force of the waves and the howling wind and rain.  Most people would be considered crazy to be out in such treacherous conditions, but not Edvard.  He loved it, he hadn’t felt this relaxed and content in months, and despite the fact that all around him was evidence of nature at its most ferocious, Edvard finally felt some peace.

There hadn’t been a storm recorded like this since the days of Leif Erikson. The beachfront was deserted. On any normal day the beachfront was awash with joggers, dog walkers or part-time treasure collectors beeping their way around the glorious sands with delusional dreams of finding lost Spanish treasure or Nazi gold, but in reality finding only the odd Euro or some ignorant fiend’s litter. Edvard hugged himself tightly under his soaking jacket and made his way along the boardwalk to the wooden pier that jutted out from the shore.

Edvard flinched as a bolt of lightning violently flashed above him, splitting the sky from end to end. He had never been this close to lightning before and a cold fear ran through him but grinning at his foolishness (and considering why he was out in such awful weather), he continued down the boardwalk. Suddenly, between thunder crashes, Edvard thought he heard a scream. He ran to the barrier and leaned over, looking down at the sandy shore and underside of the boardwalk. He strained through the noise of the thunder and pounding rain crashing off the wooden floor and wondered if his mind was maybe playing tricks on him.  But – there it was again! This time he was sure - it was definitely coming from below him. Glancing below, he spotted a flash of bright yellow through the narrow planks of the boardwalk floor. Clambering over the barrier, he leapt into the wild air, and crashed into the dark rampaging water below: within seconds, he was smashed against the concrete pillars of the boardwalk as Edvard became the silver ball in natures pinball machine.

His head pounded and salty blood ran into his eyes from the deep cut above his right eye caused by being tossed angrily in and around the several concrete pier supports by the rampaging sea.  He tread water struggling to keep his head above the waves when just as he violently shook the blood and salt water out of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of yellow and with all his might tried to swim through the dark angry water towards the bright yellow object.  Edvard was only feet away from the yellow object, and as he reached out to grab it, a large wave threw Edvard into one of the rugged concrete pillars knocking him instantly unconscious and leaving him to the mercy of the sea in an underwater concrete maze.

Edvard opened his eyes and stared at the moon above: never had it looked brighter.  He looked around and could see that he had been washed up on the beach and as he looked around the shore for the little girl he was sure he had seen, he was shocked to see a lone bright yellow buoy lying on the beach.  Edvard was sure he had seen a girl. He slowly got up from the cold wet shore groaning as the cuts and bruises that covered his body reacted to his movements.  The rain pounded his face as he started gingerly walking inshore and suddenly was violently sick onto the wet sand below.  Edvard’s head pounded from the human pinball under the pier and the several large cuts that he received to his face were stinging from the cold night air and the fearsome rain.  Edvard cautiously hobbled towards the stairway entrance to the boardwalk keeping his body in a rigid stance as possible to avoid skin contact with the freezing fabric of his clothes.  Edvard reached the top of the stairs and struggling to see through the rain and the blood in his eye’s, came face to face with an old woman.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you” Edvard stumbled around the side of the woman doing his best not to knock her over but almost falling over himself in the process. Edvard wiped some of the blood out of his eyes and stood frozen, wet and in agony.  Needing a moment to take it all in, Edvard leaned over and began holding his knees, violently spitting salt water and blood onto the ground below.

 “Sorry, hope I didn’t scare you, I was on the pier, I, I thought, I, I thought” Edvard stuttered as he realised how ridiculous it would sound that he was trying to be a hero, trying to save someone’s life, almost getting killed in the process, only to try and save a buoy. 

“What’s that dear? What did you think?” Edvard stared back for a second and replied “Its ok, its nothing, I fell off the pier, I’ll be fine”.

“You really should be more careful son; I lost my Fran in these waters” 

“I’m so sorry, are you ok?” Edvard asked the woman. 

“My Fran, she was 9, she died swimming the pier.  She would have been 25 today.  I often wonder what she would have looked like. I lost her that day.  I didn’t even get the chance to bury her.  All they found was this”

The woman was sobbing as she produced a jumper from her bag, it clearly belonged to a child and as the woman turned away sobbing and left to walk along the shore, Edvard stood frozen, silently shocked for the jumper was bright yellow.

Edvard removed a blue soggy envelope from his jacket pocket; it was addressed to his parents.  He threw the envelope in the bin and began his long cold journey home

Ode to Erin

On a freezing Hogmanay, in 2011,

Before me, there stood, an angel from heaven,

A vision in blue, her eyes they bewitched me,

Amongst all these people, only her, can I see,

People sing, laugh and dance, everywhere there is bliss,

She looks at me smiling, then leans in for the kiss,

Time slows so still, all around I hear nothing,

So un-prepared am I, for the following sting,

So cold and so soft, our skin comes together,

The shock felt within me, I’ll remember forever,

I stand like a statue as she moves away slowly,

Could a goddess like that like someone so lowly?

Body like ice, insides burn, with fire,

2012 is off to a flier!

We meet again later, when the party moves inside,

More singing, more laughing, no place to hide,

Courage comes slowly; I cross room to talk to her,

With some charm and a smile, I ask for her number,

To my surprise, she agrees, we just sit and chat,

We had some good times in that party filled flat,

We talk piercings and music, movies and more,

It was a new year to remember, talking to Erin on the floor,

Time passes too quickly; she gets up to leave,

The way that she looked at me, I just couldn’t believe,

And so the nights over, I’m sat here alone,

Could I be that lucky? Will she give me a phone?

I crawl into bed, what a night it had been,

I fall asleep thinking about the beauty id seen,

Tom Jones, AK47 and a Single Red Rose

It was just after 3pm. The howling wind and sideways rain were proving themselves to be a real nuisance. I stood huddled in the corner of a bus shelter, checking the time every minute or so, hoping that by some miracle the bus would be early. A crash of thunder erupted above and I got a real fright. After checking around to make sure no-one had witnessed my moment of panic I smiled and felt quite grateful that maybe, just maybe I had gotten away with it.

Suddenly, my pocket began to buzz, and then stopped again. It must be a text, I wondered if it would be a girl I liked called K and so reached inside my coat pocket for my phone. 1 new message, K, I read the display and all feelings of cold from the weather around me soon disappeared and were replaced by a warm fuzzy feeling. I pressed view message and smiled like a madman at the text before me. “Hey you, me and A are in town. Cuppa?” I re-read the text just to make sure it was what it was and then after writing my reply (at the third attempt, I didn’t want to sound too easy) I left the pathetic cover of the bus shelter and back out into the fearsome conditions.

As I made my way to the coffee shop where the girls were waiting, my mind raced, don’t say anything weird or stupid, I said to myself, play it cool and whatever you do, don’t be yourself. The warm fuzzy feeling was gone and panic had ensued within me. Luckily, before a complete mental breakdown I reached the coffee shop. With a deep breath and a smile I opened the door and went in.

The café itself was narrow yet long, the counter ran half the length of the room on my right and tables on the left, there were few dimly lit tables at the rear of the café and that’s where I saw the girls sitting. It was A who had spotted me first and with a smile and a wave she beckoned me over. K had her back to me and as she turned and waved a hello, I almost turned and ran. (I’m pretty much useless in the company of beautiful women). I joined them at the table and ordered a pot of tea for one. The girls were just finishing their lunch and sat talking about their plans for the coming weekend. I listened intently, part of me hoping that I may be invited to come out that weekend but in my usual fearful way I sat and said nothing. I sat their in awe at both of these girls natural beauty. Why would they be friends with me? A was 24 with shoulder length brown hair, it was tied behind her ears, her whole face visible and a smile that would make a Cistercian monk pass out. K was 23. Her straight black hair was hanging loosely in front of her face, partially covering one side. K had several piercings in her ears and several dermal piercings bordered her beautiful blue eyes. I didn’t want to interrupt them, I could listen to them talk for hours, so I just sat there. After a while, a decision was made (by the girls of course) that we would go to the local tattoo and piercing studio to book a piercing for me. I was quite stunned, I wasn’t sure if I really wanted any piercings. I’d said it once to K at a party that I wanted a few different piercings. This of course was a lie. I merely wanted to continue talking to her and thought if she knew the real me, she would run for the hills.

Keeping my fears and concerns well hidden, I followed the girls from the café to the Tattoo parlour. The next part is quite hazy in my mind. I remember meeting F, who was in charge of piercing (F is someone I now consider a friend and who is without doubt one of the most genuine and kind human being’s I think I’ve ever met) and another K, who was the owner of the business. (Tattoo K is also now a friend of mine and someone who has opened my mind and I will never regret meeting). Today was to have a long-lasting effect on my life especially as I was leaving with two appointments to keep, one for a tattoo and one for a tongue piercing.

We left the tattoo parlour and walked back along the street towards the car park where A had parked. I say walked, we linked arms and skipped along singing the theme tune from The Wizard of Oz, oblivious to the looks of stunned passers by. The car was a small black 4 door and to my surprise A began talking to it, as if it were a real person. I was then informed that this was because the car had feelings and a personality all of its own. His name was Brian. K looked at me and smiled, for a moment I was mesmerised. I was brought back to reality by K shouting “shotgun” and watched as she effortlessly jumped into the car. Just as I put my hand onto the handle to open the door, A drove Brian forward a few feet. This was in no way an annoyance because of the fits of giggles that the girls were in. I couldn’t help but laugh. Of course after three more times of this and me having to run to finally catch them I was little miffed. However when I finally did get into the car, two beautiful smiling faces had turned to look at me and any negative feelings had disappeared.

“Ready?” A asked

“Ready for what exactly?” I replied with a smile, my nerves starting to go a little.

Suddenly the car was filled with the sexy, booming voice of Tom Jones and that of his new co lead vocals, A and K. A was a good driver; she could manage singing, smiling and speeding all at the same time. I maybe should have been scared or a bit freaked out by the surreal way in which this afternoon was going. I wasn’t. I was having a great time. I hadn’t laughed so much in such a long time.

As I was flung about the back seat by the quick winding roads, the girls continued their Tom Jones concert. I was informed I had better start singing too or I was walking. I am no singer, but I was enjoying the moment and joined in with the girls with a never before heard version of Delilah. We flew into the Tesco car park and although I’m not sure why, we parked quite a distance from the shop itself. I was told we were here for a red rose for a friend and some hair dye. I was happy to go along with it, I would have gone anywhere today with this crazy pair.

We walked through the main doors of Tesco and began hunting for a decent red rose. It was 15th February and there were still plenty good ones for sale, at reduced prices. K found the one she wanted and as she picked it up. It was entangled with another and in the process of detangling them; I broke the stem on one. K said it didn’t matter and that she would buy them both. Up until now, I had managed not to say anything too stupid. Nothing lasts forever. As we walked around Tesco, K held the unbroken rose and I carried the broken one. (The previous weekend, we had all been at a party where I had tried to prove I was gay. Not one of my best ideas. The end result being I kissed two different men, openly on the lips, with tongue).

So with me holding the bent rose, the girls began reminding me of the events of that particular party and were questioning my sexuality. Hilarity ensued as I was ridiculed and not being one to be against such things, I joined in. I have since been told that after my performance at the party and on that day in Tesco, my sexuality is definitely in question. As we neared the checkouts, I suggested that I replace the rose with an unbroken one so that K’s friend’s feelings were not hurt. As we stood by the roses again, K chose one of the Tesco finest range roses and picked it up. I followed the girls through the checkout, out the door and back to the waiting Brian and Tom. Just as we approached Brian, K turned and looked right at me. It was unexpected yet in no way unpleasant. She handed me the Rose and said “Happy Valentines Day”. I was speechless. I hugged her and said thank you and we all climbed back into Brian.

It is a half hour journey from Tesco to the town we all lived in. All the way there, Brian kept us safe and Tom kept us smiling. My mind, however, was in a quandary. I hadn’t been given anything for Valentines Day for several years and had spent most of the previous week wrestling in my mind whether to get something for K or not. I had decided not to. I didn’t think it would be wise to ruin a good friendship over an affection that was unlikely shared. But she had given me the rose. What if she did like me in that way? If it wasn’t for Tom, I would have gone crazy on that return car journey. I put it out of my mind and the three of us sped home, singing Tom all the way. I kept that rose close and still have it to this day. It is slightly less Tesco Finest as it once was but every time I look at it, I am reminded of one of the best afternoons I have experienced in such a long time, one in which I spent with two wonderful and beautiful friends and made two new ones.

Saor Alba

TYPEWRITER

1992 was an interesting year. Olympics in Barcelona, European Championships in Sweden won by the massive Danish underdogs, Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You was the Christmas Number One and despite the unwanted affections of a school friend’s drunk step dad (I still remember that, Lindsay), the thing I remember most about 1992 was that I wanted to be a writer.

I was 12 years old and at the head of a troop of young commandos, quietly and cautiously traversing down the perilous and treacherous canyons of South America: in reality, the incredibly squeaky stairs in my family home. I turned to look at my second in command; my sister stood yawning and giggling as the excitement within her rose to the surface. It was Christmas morning and we were on our third recce already, not even the sun was awake yet. A muffled cry of “it’s too bloody early, I won’t tell you again” came from behind my parent’s bedroom door. There were serious looks of dissent from my platoon; both younger sisters and younger brother were unusually united in one cause. We had to get in.

After some pleading from me and some swearing from behind the door (I assumed it was my mum, for my dad rarely swore or got angry, itself quite surprising because we four kids rarely got along, even Ghandi would have gone a bit mental on a day out with us) we were finally granted access to Santa’s grotto. It doesn’t occur to children that parents have barely had any sleep on Christmas Eve and have had to be on high alert for daring early-morning raids from 4 excited children. When the door to the living room was finally opened, it was an incredible sight to behold. The whole room was beautifully decorated with the usual Christmas tinsel and tat but the best thing were the 4 mountains of presents spaced about the room. The platoon quickly scattered to their respective piles and carnage of paper and packaging filled the air. Whoops of joy and gasps of delight were heard from all quarters as we opened the gifts Santa had been kind enough to drop off to us on what essentially is his only working day of the year (Cameron’s Britain wouldn’t like that).

We weren’t a wealthy family but my parents always tried to give us Christmases to remember and they rarely failed. I’m still traumatised by the world’s most dodgy jumper and a bright pink racing bike (I’d asked for a mountain bike) I sat in the rubble of paper around me and my eyes were drawn to my name on a large rectangular box. It was like falling in love, a thunderbolt of epic proportions. This may just be the typewriter that I had hinted at for weeks. I opened it and when my suspicions were confirmed. It had been a great day so far and it was only half past seven.

Within an hour the troops had been completely de-mobbed and were camped out in piles of new toys, clothes, books and other gifts that were now scattered everywhere. As is usual with children, we were all completely bored and starting to get testy with each other. This was not unnoticed and a cry of “Why don’t you go up stairs and fucking write something then, Mr Great Fucking Writer? (My mother’s usual loving tone) went up and pandemonium ensued. I fled to my room and suitably sulked for about half an hour before opening up the box and lifting the typewriter out onto my desk. “I’ll show her” I muttered to myself.

The typewriter was a shiny grey and was very sleek considering it was 1992. I loved it. There was also a full packet of 500 sheets of A4 paper which came in a carrier bag emblazoned with the logo of a local newspaper in Brechin. I took out the first page and wound it to the right place and then………..nothing! I couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and, as I was a kid who always had something to say, this was a shock and a surprise. After some time playing around with it, writing and deleting (it had a tippex ribbon, a feature I loved since I didn’t know how to type and constantly made mistakes), I decided to write my grandparents a letter telling them about my day.

All these details I remember, but almost all of the letter’s contents escape me. The parts I remember were the first few lines. I had said Merry Christmas and told them I was writing to them on my new typewriter. I said that the paper was courtesy of the Brechin newspaper office since its name was on the bag. I didn’t really know what that meant but I wanted to sound clever and maybe impress my grandparents. When I had finished the letter I made the mistake of telling my mother. It was then suggested that I read it to the family first. I wasn’t keen but my mum was very persuasive in her own way.

I remember standing in front of them all, fidgeting and shifting weight from left foot to right foot. The letter hung loosely in my hand. I was scared to death. Needless to say after some more inspirational words of encouragement from my loving mother, I began. Just as I finished the third line saying “courtesy of” relating to the paper, my mum snapped in “Courtesy of! Ha! Courtesy of your father, you think you just get all these things for free don’t you?” The rant lasted a while. Once I was suitably chastised enough to be left to continue, I, of course, didn’t want to. Once again, loving encouragement made me continue (I still had a whole page to read)

This is the first memory I have about wanting to be a writer and over the years have started many, many projects but finished very few. Over the last 18 months I have written more and more. Short stories, poetry, comedy sketches, observational blogs and even a novel have flowed through me at times but I always get that fear just like when I was 12. So I never publish them. It has taken a lot of grief from a trusted friend for me to begin my new blog with this story. Please feel free to comment in any way you see fit.