The Cove - a work still in progress

The local news came on. Grumbling, Heather emptied her Mother’s ashtray and lit a new cigarette. She began to day dream about her enemies at college, and how, exactly, she could break them. Before thinking about swapping the water in the drinking fountain for bleach, she had coffee heart just by imagining pushing Rachel Hunt and her purged stick legs down the old Victorian stairs. The overly made up, dead eyed news reporter began to read the auto cue.
“Another diver has gone missing in Stoney Cove. French businessman Martin Fox, Twenty Seven, came to the world renowned cove to dive and explore the many sunken objects and vehicles. Could this be the start of another group of divers disappearing in the water, similar to the Sunken Seekers of 1943 where seven men...”
The report trailed off in Heather’s mind as her Mother slapped an egg on a plate and pushed it in front of her. Heather pushed her fork against the chicken abortion, and raw, urine coloured eggwhite came pouring out. She threw the plate in the bin, picked up her bag and stubbed her cigarette out in the sink. Heather became an empty sarcophagus.

Slinking around the back of the new Geography block, Heather pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She breathed in and felt relaxed.

Sleep, on your bed of needles.

I take immense pleasure from other people's pain. Pain, it would appear has become my drug. Not pure, physical pain but emotional eating away pain, something that grows like a brick in the stomach of innocent, breaking characters. My prose really gives very little away, simply a ball of pain painted on to paper.
I get excited by failure, by risks and by fear. Perhaps, my fear of the wind blowing and a late night robbery is less horrid if this happens to another person, a friend.
Oh what a smothered echo I have become.

THINGS ARE GETTING STRANGE

Things are getting strange and beginning to heat up around here.
They have come and gone, mostly gone, and now evaporated in to little but angel dust.
A new idea for a short story is keeping me occupied. The Cove is the centre, the light flashing to reveal a hidden secret. But of what? I must keep racking my brain.
My Father has become little but a blue pause in his clattered box of selfish tools.
My thoughts after finishing are always so strange - so animal.

the pounding rain is echoing
my inner thoughts of rancid breath
and ribbon tied hair, lost
and hung like a naked child
in the tree of the dead.

in the island of souls that
glimpse nothing of the sun but learn
only of rain from their birth comes the
holy child, the delinquent.
His first steps mirror that of the dead

legs, crawling like alien tentacles
who's suckers grab on to his dark
fluid, brown eyes. He can see
no mountain moving for this pain;
it's grip firmly lodged in a caramel coated glaze.

he has had his fill of keys on hearts.

Fox Fur

I do not know what to make of you and your broken, shaking hands. Your eyes make me cry. Your eyes make me alien. My tea needs sugar Mother. I jump in to cold, blue water, black beetles swim around and a shark’s fin hangs above my head in the farm. I wonder what secrets the fox fur stole used to know. It terrified me so. It used to hang in my wardrobe covered in white glossy paint where I used to lay down and push my bare feet down against the door to the floor, making it scream. The fox hanged itself along with a few of her other old, contaminated clothes probably from other husbands and sometimes, it would lean out and touch me. It smelt of old things, dead creepy things. Mother used to wear the animal a lot when she was younger; it had small, glass eyes that tinkered when your nail touched them and a tiny hinge on its mouth so that you could make it talk, and even though I’ve tried many a time, it never speaks. I now wear a black fox fur stole in the winter.

Topaz

Twenty years. Ten years of dismembered memories.
I wonder who this woman is, this mask of wood and golden nails. One day I’ll remove this mask and find the wood decomposed, the nails rusted.

Perfection is obsolete. Your mask hides reality, reality that I will never know. I do not know who you are, who you were, who we are. I cannot find the words to write about you.

You are ambiguous, an amphibian, an unpolished topaz. I am pulverised by this latest thing.

A work in progress...

I am a wall of eyes.
Asleep on a mattress of
horse hair and needles,
you prod and poke your
penis nose.

Jealousy is liquid.
A dead ancient portrait of
the stone and the tree.
Tonight is enough,
curtains close.

Chapter 3

Are Fairy Tales fantastically moralistic, promising an unconventional, potentially inappropriate and fantastic illusory lifestyle?