Final Gerald

The smell of toast woke Gerald from a deep sleep. He smelt freshly squeezed orange juice and heard voices from the kitchen. The strain in his back, that Gerald only noticed when he tried to sit up was almost unbearable. He felt as if every muscle in his body had been stretched and pulled. The pain in his joints soon subsided after Gerald stood, and did a few basic stretches that he remembered from his school days.
'Morning,' Gerald's mother said as Gerald entered the kitchen.
'Morning,' he repeated, sitting at the table next to her.
Gerald's father laid plates of fresh toast in front of them, and then set a plate for himself down on the table. 'Sorry,' he said, noticing Gerald's lack of excitement at his sense of culinary adventure.
'It's okay,' Gerald murmured, his neck still slightly stiff.
'That'll go away,' Gerald's father said, putting a piece of toast in his mouth and flicking through the morning paper.
'What will?' Gerald asked.
His father looked up at him, 'The neck thing,' he said waving his toast in the air.
'Oh,' Gerald said, picking up a piece of toast.
Gerald's mother put her hand on Gerald's shoulder and smiled. He turned to look at her and found himself returning the smile. She stroked the back of his head and let her arm fall after Gerald shook his head slightly.
'Eat up,' she said, 'It'll go cold.'
'Well, sorry again,' Gerald's father started. 'I haven't had to cook breakfast for a while,' he smiled at Gerald who returned the smile.
The three sat at the round breakfast table, Gerald's father flicking through the paper, his mother focussing on her breakfast, and Gerald, staring absent-mindedly through the window. A knock sounded at the door and Gerald's parents gave each other puzzled expressions. On the second knock Gerald sighed and went to get the door.
Sally stood in the open door clutching a pile of books under her arm. 'Hi Ger,' she said.
'Hey Sal,' he smiled and let her in. 'We're just in the kitchen.'
Gerald closed the door, while Sally made her way through the house.
'Morning Sally,' Gerald's father looked over at the toaster. 'Hungry?'
'Hey Greg,' Sally waved, 'Lola.'
'Sally,' Gerald's mother said with a smile. 'Much on today?'
'Not really,' Sally began, taking a seat at the table. 'I just have to return some books at the library.'
A stern look crossed Gerald's father's face and he gave Gerald's mother a cautious glance. 'Taking Gerald with you?' His question came out as a statement.
'Sure,' Sally smiled, not catching Gerald's father's concern. 'Cool?' She look at Gerald.
'Yeah,' he replied, 'No problem.'
'I know what they say,' Gerald's father held his hands up, 'But that campus gives me the creeps.'
'Oh honey,' Gerald's mother smiled at her husband. 'These kids can take care of themselves.'
Gerald's father nodded, then shook his head slightly as if trying to dismiss his concern. 'I know,' he finally said.
'Wanna go now?' Gerald asked Sally, stuffing the last piece of toast into his mouth.
'Sure,' she grinned, placing her hand on his back.
'Cool,' Gerald picked up the books, pretending not to notice her hand on his back. They went to the front door and Sally opened it for him. As Gerald walked through, he leant over and kissed Sally on the cheek. She laughed and closed the door.
'Oh Gerald!' His father's call came too late, the two were already gone.
'What was it?' Lola asked.
'Oh just this article,' Greg said, sliding the paper across the table.
Lola read the headline; “Man stops speeding train!” She looked up at her husband, confused. He pointed to the first lines; “A local man has died after jumping in between a moving train and a stalled bus full of children. Witnesses say the man was able to stop the train hitting the bus before dying of injuries sustained in the incident.”
Lola shook her head and focussed her attention on the kitchen window. Greg sighed and picked up another piece of toast, chewing lazily as he too stared through the window.

More Gerald

Lola Smith sat perched on the hospital bed, her feet in stirrups, her face red and drenched with sweat and tears. She let out a low moan and her husband Greg squeezed her hand, his face showing grim concern. The midwife placed a hand over Lola's belly and told her to “push!”
Later Lola slept, her baby son being rocked gently by Greg, who sat next to her in the ward. Her eyes fluttered open and she tilted her head looking up at Greg. 'What happened?'
'You passed out,' Greg said, cradling his son. 'I'll get the nurse.'
'No,' Lola said, a rush of energy filling her voice. 'Wait.'
'Honey, you've been out for two days.'
Lola took this in, thinking. Her eyes drifted to the window and she gently placed her hand on Greg's arm. 'Let me hold him.'
Greg bent down and let Lola's arms wrap around her son before saying, 'It's not safe for me here.'
Lola nodded and looked up at her young husband. He wore a grey hooded jumper from the university he had enrolled in during the summer. 'Is he like us?' Lola motioned towards the sleeping infant in her arms.
Greg nodded.
'What have you been doing? You said you wouldn't even be here for this,' Lola said, tears welling up in her eyes.
Greg pulled a folded newspaper from his backpack on the floor. He studied it and sighed. 'I did leave,' he finally said.
'What brought you back?' Lola asked, kissing her son on the head.
Greg turned the paper to Lola, she read the small headline at the bottom of the front page; “Man stops speeding train!” It looked like a tabloid article, but Lola saw that it was a decent paper.
'You?' She asked without looking up at Greg.
'No,' he said, but faltered. 'Kind of.'
Lola shook her head, her son finally waking. 'Shh,' she whispered, kissing his head again.
'There was this guy,' Greg began, 'Just a boy really.'
Lola looked up expectantly.
'I,' Greg put his hand behind his head, scratching at nothing in particular. 'I helped him.'
'What was his name?' Lola asked.
'Jerry something,' Greg scratched again. 'He said his name was Jerry Wilkins.'
'Jerry,' Lola repeated quietly, looking at her son. 'How old was he?' she asked.
'Eighteen,' Greg said with a sigh.
Tears began to form in Lola's eyes again and she pulled her son close, kissing him on the head repeatedly.
'I'm sorry,' Greg looked down at his young wife.
'No,' Lola said finally, wiping the tears away with her free hand. 'Don't be.'
'I have to go now,' Greg said and moved to leave. 'I'll get the nurse,' he said over his shoulder.
'Wait,' Lola called.
'What is it?'
'Will you help him too?' Lola looked down at her son. 'When the time comes, will you help him too?'
Greg shook his head and left.
Lola cried openly, knowing she would never see the man she loved again. A nurse stepped into the room looking slightly bewildered. 'Mrs. Smith?' She questioned.
'Ms. Smith,' Lola corrected, wiping a tear from her cheek.
'Good to see you and baby...' The nurse faltered.
'Jerry,' Lola said. 'Baby Jerry.'
The nurse stepped over to the bed, still looking slightly confused. She leant down and placed her hand on the tiny boy's head, her confused expression breaking into a smile as the infant opened his eyes. 'He looks like a Jerry to me,' she said. 'Little baby Gerald.'

The force of the train caused Gerald's arms to buckle. He saw the speeding mass of iron and death falter. His palms burning and bleeding, Gerald held on. The impact forced his spine into the steel side of the bus, compacting the bones and severing the nerves. He felt the flesh on his back tear and that was the last physical sensation Gerald felt. His body went numb, but his mind raced. His thoughts centred on one concept, one focus. This train will not touch this bus. Gerald repeated the thought in his mind, it took on a life of it's own circling around his head. A strange energy came from the thought and although his body was broken and numb, Gerald maintained his position. The thought evolved, twisting and growing, gaining mass and power with each loop of his disturbed mind. Eventually, this train will not touch this bus became, this train will not touch me.
Gerald felt a sudden release of pressure on his hands and spine. He looked forward and saw the train slide backwards on the track. The sound of the engine screaming and dying deafened Gerald. He looked down and saw specks of blood on his shirt. He watched and realised they were coming from his nose. Turning his head slightly Gerald saw more droplets of blood on his shoulders. These could be coming from his ears, but he couldn't be sure.
A booming roar and a final crash that almost knocked the rigid Gerald over sounded, and he knew the train was dead. Gerald collapsed onto the ground, unable to move or blink. He felt unable to breathe and through his ruptured eardrums he heard a faint hissing noise coming from his chest. Gerald's limp torso flopped over on the ground and the shattered mass of bones and mangled organs caved in on itself.
His eyes were drawn to the bus stop across the street and Gerald watched as the man in the grey jumper stood and walked over to him.
'How you doing kid?' The man asked, kneeling beside him. Blood oozed from Gerald's mouth, although he couldn't speak anyway.
'Don't worry, son,' the man rested a hand on Gerald's head. 'Close your eyes now.'
Gerald refused to let his eyelids drop, knowing how damaged and beaten he was.
'Close your eyes Gerald,' the man repeated. He leant in closer and whispered into Gerald's ear, barely audible through the blood, 'Close your eyes, and you'll wake up.'
Gerald's eyelids fluttered but he held on.
'Time to wake up Gerald,' the man stroked his hair, 'You did it son.' Gerald saw the man's wide smile, his eyes full of tears. 'You did it.'
Gerald closed his eyes.

Update

When Gerald opened his eyes, he found himself staring out of the window of the train, watching himself in the distance, leaning against the bus, protesting the inevitable. Sally sat next to him on a small aluminium stool, a large panel of knobs and buttons in front of her. She wore a sky-blue shirt and navy trousers.
'Jesus Gerald!' Her exclamation made him jump. She looked over to him, panic in her eyes. 'I can't stop it in time,' she held her hands up to her trembling mouth. 'Oh Jesus,' she moaned.
Gerald put his hand on her shoulder, 'It's going to be okay.'
'How can you say that? Look!' She pointed through the windscreen, 'Somebody's on the tracks too!'
'Come here,' Gerald said, putting his arm across her back. She instinctively wrapped her arms around him, sobbing into his chest. 'It's okay, I'll stop it.'
She sniffed and pulled away, her eyes red with tears. 'How?' Her confusion was overwhelming. The question sent waves of doubt through Gerald.
'I,' he began. 'I just will.' He added, 'Right?'
Sally turned her head towards the windscreen, wiping tears from her eyes. She squinted then turned back to Gerald. 'Is that you?'
'Yeah,' Gerald said. 'Or,' he added, 'A part of me.'
She sniffed again and grabbed at Gerald's shirt, 'Can you do it?'
'You told me I could,' Gerald countered.
'You can't stop a train!' Her eyes began to well up again, 'You'll be killed!'
Gerald felt a momentary sense of failure and he couldn't tell why. 'But you told me,' he stammered.
She didn't speak, just looked up at him, her eyes red and wild.
'You told me,' Gerald repeated. 'Sally, come on,' he leant down and pulled her close. 'You said I could save the children.'
She simply shook her head in disbelief before whispering, 'You'll be killed.'
Gerald turned around, clasping his head in his hands. 'Come on!' The frustration finally boiling over. 'What the fuck is going on?' Gerald questioned nobody in particular. He turned back to Sally who looked traumatised. 'Fuck it, I'm going!'
Gerald stepped towards the windscreen when he heard Sally whisper, 'Don't.'
'And why shouldn't I? Huh?' Gerald leant over her, yelling into her face. 'I've had enough of this shit!'
'Don't kill yourself,' she whispered, looking through the window.
'Why not?' Gerald screamed at the back wall of the train cabin. He turned to Sally, 'You're in here,' he said tapping his temple, 'Give me a reason why not!'
Sally looked up at him, her eyes big and frightened. 'What about your family?'
'Wrong!' Gerald screamed, 'I don't have a family, remember?' He tapped his temple again, 'You'll have to do better than that.'
'Friends?' Sally questioned.
Gerald pulled back, placing his hands over his face and laughing. 'I don't have any friends.'
'What about me?' She said it with a sense of desperate hope in her voice.
'You?' Gerald pulled his hands from his face. 'You?' He repeated this quietly, stepping over to Sally. He leant in close to her face and whispered, 'But you're not real,' his hand stroking her cheek.
'I am real,' she pulled back, offended. She placed her hand on his cheek, 'I am real, and I'm your friend Gerald.'
Gerald shook his head in disbelief. 'No. The only time we were friends was a dream,' Gerald tapped his temple again, trying to get the point across. 'When I went to your house, you slammed the door on me. That was real!'
'I don't remember that,' Sally looked down at her lap.
'Because it wasn't you!' Gerald cried. 'It was the real Sally!'
'I am the real Sally,' she murmured, almost inaudible.
'No! No, you're not. The real Sally studies at uni.' Gerald began counting on his fingers, one, 'She isn't my girlfriend!' Two, 'She isn't a prostitute!' Three, 'And she isn't a fucking train driver!'
Sally's eyes widened at the last sentence and before Gerald could add something about how he meant train conductor, she had vanished.
'Fuck,' Gerald sighed. When he looked through the windscreen, he could see two of himself talking to each other at the bus. One of them stepped over and merged with the other. Gerald moved through the front of the speeding train and flew into himself. His two bodies blending into one, just as the train hit.

Gerald's story update

Gerald sat at the kitchen table chewing an a piece of toast. He had showered and dressed, and for about an hour he had sat in bed pinching his arms and occasionally slapping his face. This was real, this wasn't another dream. Gerald was sure of it.
'Save the children,' Gerald scoffed, dropping his toast on the plate. He put his head in his hands. 'Fuck.'
He grabbed his jacket and went out for a walk. The early sun shone bright through the closing clouds. Gerald walked past Sally's house, paused, and kept walking. She wasn't real, he thought. Well, at least the Sally he knew wasn't real. He strolled past the local primary school, still too early for any kids. If he had to save the children, whatever that meant, this was a good place to start looking.
Gerald looked in on the play equipment and remembered breaking Tommy Johnson's arm. He tried to remember if he ever saw Tommy after that day. Maybe his parents moved him to another school. Strangely, he couldn't remember seeing Tommy before that day either. His only memory of this boy was the day he hurt him.
Gerald chuckled to himself and shook his head. It's strange how the mind focusses on bad things, he thought. He wandered past the oval and tried to remember his junior football days. He was only on the team for a few weeks. He didn't know the kid that he tackled to the ground. He just knew that he did it.
After walking past the school, Gerald crossed the train tracks and sat at the bus stop. He didn't want to catch a bus, he just needed somewhere to think. The school bus drove past, not stopping. Gerald looked up at the laughing, giggling kids.
A shuddering thump came from under the bus and Gerald already knew what was going to happen. The bus shuddered again and the engine died.
'Perfect,' Gerald sighed, looking up along the train tracks that the bus had stalled on. He stood up and walked over to the side of the bus, standing on the train tracks. None of the kids noticed him, and he heard the driver furiously trying to re-start the engine.
'Naturally,' Gerald sighed again, watching the train come roaring up the tracks towards him. He rested his back against the side of the bus to brace himself and raised his arms towards the train.
The horn sounded and Gerald heard the gasps and cries of the children, muffled by the glass windows of the bus. As the train rushed closer, Gerald closed his eyes.

'Think you know what's going on?'
Gerald raised his eyes and saw the man in the grey jumper sitting next to him at the bus stop. 'Not at all,' he replied.
'Good,' the man chuckled and slapped Gerald's shoulder. 'Best way to be.'
'Maybe,' Gerald sighed and looked over to the stalled bus on the tracks. He saw himself, wedged up against the side of the bus, his hands raised to stop the inevitable.
'The man looked over and chuckled, he pulled a crumpled packet of peanut m&m's from his pocket and began munching on one. 'Reckon that kid'll save 'em,' he said, looking at Gerald up against the bus.
'Hope so,' Gerald replied.
The man looked over to Gerald and did a double-take, 'Well. That's you? Ain't it?'
Gerald nodded, slouching over, his elbows resting on his knees watching himself against the bus.
'Good luck,' the man said and slipped another m&m into his mouth.
'Thanks.' Gerald stretched out on the bus stop bench and got a good look at the man in the hooded jumper. The gash was there, everything was the same as when he last vanished. 'Can I ask you something?'
'Sure,' the man said, offering Gerald an m&m.
Gerald shook his head. 'Who are you?'
'Me?' The man put the packet back in his pocket. 'Oh, I'm just nobody,' he said it with a sly grin.
'Come on, man. Give me something.'
'Okay, Gerald. I'm one of your creations.'
Gerald put his head in his hands. 'What does that mean?' He asked through his fingers.
'You want an explanation, or not? Like I said, best to not know what's going on.'
'Fine,' Gerald said. 'I don't care anyway.'
The man chuckled and looked back over to the bus. 'You'd better hurry up now, kid.'
Gerald sighed and stood up, making his way towards himself.
'Don't kill yourself,' the man called out, before breaking into a fit of laughter.
'Fuck you,' Gerald muttered. He went over to himself, sliding next to him. 'Hey,' he said to his double.
'Hey,' he said back, his arms still raised.
'Reckon you can stop the train?' Gerald asked.
'Hope so,' his double replied, his eyes fixed on the looming mechanical death approaching them.
'Here, let me just get in there,' Gerald said to his double and he took a step closer, finding his body merging with the double.
'Sure,' the double said as Gerald slid into his place. 'Good luck.'
'Yeah,' Gerald sighed to himself.

Gerald Update

Starting to set up some action here. The plot is coming together in my mind now so it's a little less wander-ish... At least in my mind. Enjoy.

The therapist's office was small, modern and smelt a little like oranges. Gerald sat on a reasonably comfortable chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin balancing in his hands. The therapist sat back in her chair, her notepad on her lap.
The two stared aimlessly at each other until she spoke. 'So how was your week?'
'Good.'
She let out a laugh and leant forward, 'I'm going to need more than that.' She scribbled the word “good” on her notepad and showed it to Gerald. 'My boss'll kill me if I let you leave with just this.'
Gerald smiled. She was right, the word looked a little lonely on her pad. 'Well I had a few weird dreams this week.'
'Great! That's always a good place to start.' She smiled wide, 'We'll just jump straight into your subconscious then.'
Gerald let out a slight laugh, 'Okay then.'
'So tell me about your “weird” dreams.'
'Well I dreamt about a man who was like, floating, outside my window.' Gerald leant back, resting his hands in his lap.
'Floating man, hey? Did he do anything? Say anything to you?'
'No, he disappeared.'
'Like, “poof”?' She made a mock magician motion with her hands, 'he vanished?'
'Yeah. I saw him again later and he did it again.'
'Sounds like you've got a case of disappearing man syndrome.'
'What's the cure, doc?' Gerald leant forward again, resting his chin in his hands.
She smiled, 'Find a nice boy Gerald.'
'Why does everyone keep telling me that?' Gerald frowned.
'I'm just kidding. No, but seriously, it could be a deeper anxiety. Separation maybe? Fear of abandonment? I mean, I know all about your family Gerald. You've been through a lot.' She leant forward and rested her hand on Gerald's shoulder.
Gerald smiled, the warmth of her touch was all he needed. It didn't help him understand anything, it didn't make his problems go away, it just felt normal. Gerald only wanted to feel normal.
'I treated your mother, you know?'
'I didn't know that,' Gerald frowned.
'She was like you,' she smiled. Gerald smiled back, knowing he would never fully understand his mother. 'Well time's up kid,' she put the cap on her pen and stood up.
'Already?'
'Yeah, you've got a busy day ahead of you.' She leant forward, her lips close to Gerald's ear. 'After all, you're the only one who can save them.' She kissed his forehead.
'Save who?'
'Save the children Gerald.' She walked over to the door and held it open for him to leave.
'Sorry. What?' Gerald stood, not quite sure what he had heard.
'Time's up buddy. Time to wake up.'

Gerald opened his eyes. He was lying in bed, covered in sweat. There was no note this time, but Gerald remembered most of the dream. He rolled over onto his side and saw Sally lying next to him. She was completely naked, and Gerald looked down to see that he was too. He blinked and looked around the room. The lighting was dim, but Gerald could make out a large mirror against one wall. He looked over and realised he was lying on a double bed, possibly a queen. A glass bowl on the side-table overflowed with wrapped condoms and Gerald looked across the room at the large flat-screen television showing a pretty tame lesbian sex scene. The volume was down.
'So, you've already payed for the hour, but there are a few extra things I can do. But they'll cost you.' Sally's head rested on her hand.
'Sorry, what?'
'Hmm,' Sally looked down at him. 'I'm not sure if you'd be up for the extras anyway.'
'You're not a prostitute.'
'I can be whatever you want, honey.' She smiled devilishly, 'For the hour anyway.'
'This is a dream,' Gerald sat up on the bed.
'Sure it is,' her hand slid down Gerald's stomach. 'Still hung up on your runaway boyfriend?'
'He wasn't my boyfriend. Why does everyone say that?' Gerald inhaled sharply.
'You like that?' Sally smiled at him. Her eyes had a lazy look in them.
'Yes, but,' Gerald inhaled again. 'This isn't real.'
'Just enjoy it, honey. Who cares if it's not real?'
Gerald put his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. 'What does all this mean?'
'Who knows?' She sounded bored.
'Weird dreams, disappearing guys? What's wrong with me.'
She slid closer to Gerald, her body pressing against his. 'There's nothing wrong with you baby.' She kissed his neck causing Gerald to let out a long-held sigh. 'You like that?' She whispered into his ear.
Gerald opened his eyes and turned his head towards her, their noses were almost touching. 'I do like it.' He kissed her on the lips.
'That's normally extra, but I'll let you get away with it.' She smiled, 'You're just too cute.'
Gerald let out a laugh, 'Yeah, sure.'
'Tell me about your dreams Ger.'
'I had a really weird one with my therapist.' Gerald closed his eyes, letting his body relax. Letting Sally do what she wanted.
'Like this one?'
'What?' Gerald opened his eyes looking at her. 'No,' he relaxed again. 'I don't even have a therapist,' Gerald laughed. 'She told me I'm the only one who can save them.'
'Save who, honey?'
'The children.'
'What do you suppose that means?'
'No idea.' Gerald put his hand down over hers, stopping her. He rolled onto his side, kissing her again. She smiled and put her leg over his, their naked bodies pressing together.
'I know what it means,' she said.
'Oh really?' Gerald kissed her again. 'Can you please tell me?'
She smiled and nestled her head into his neck, her mouth near his ear. 'You're so strong,' she rubbed his arms.
'No, tell me about this weird shit. Please.'
'You can see things that haven't happened yet,' she kissed his neck. 'You can outrun any bully.' Gerald felt her tongue lick his collarbone, and he heard her giggle.'You're the only one that can save them.' She pulled away, looking into his eyes. 'Don't let it get you down, honey. You're very special.'
Gerald leant in to kiss her, but she pulled back.
'Time's up kid.'
'Already?'
'Yeah, you've got a busy day ahead of you.' She leant forward, her lips close to Gerald's ear. 'After all, you're the only one who can save them.' She kissed his forehead. 'Time's up honey. Time to wake up.'
'Yeah. I know.'

More weird stuff

Here's a bit more of the "Gerald" story.

Gerald found it hard to sleep that night, his thoughts drifted back to the man in the grey jumper. Why would he vanish like that? Once Gerald managed to sleep, he had another dream. He found himself walking along a street near his house that he knew well. Something told him to stop walking and he did. Looking around Gerald saw a house that he had walked past many times. The old red bricks were faded and moss grew around the base of the house.
A strange sensation flew through Gerald, telling him to go into the house. Although he had walked past it many times, he never knew who lived there. He never found himself paying any attention to any of the houses on his walks.
As he walked up onto the front porch Gerald saw the curtains flutter. The little motion sparked his curiosity and he stepped over to the window. Despite the curtains being heavy and drawn, Gerald leant against the window, trying to see into the house. His hands never made contact with the glass, instead he lurched forward and fell into the living room.
'Gerald? What are you doing here?' Sally said. She sat on a large couch surrounded by piles of books, a notepad in her lap.
'I don't know,' Gerald answered still sprawled out on the floor where he had landed.
'Come here,' Sally tapped the cushion next to her curled up legs. 'I want you to see this.'
Gerald picked himself up from the floor and sat down on the couch next to her. She had a large hard-cover graphic novel open on the floor. Gerald saw the image of a masked hero perched on a menacing gargoyle. His eyes moved to Sally's notepad. She had replicated the image with incredible accuracy.
'I thought you were supposed to be writing an essay on this stuff?' Gerald stretched out and put his arm around her shoulder.
'I know,' she sighed and leant into him. 'I'd rather make it than write about it, you know?'
'I know.' Gerald stroked her hair.
'You hungry?' Sally looked up at him.
'Hmm?'
'I said, are you hungry?' She laughed and patted his stomach.
'Sure Sal.' Gerald watched as she placed her pad down on one of the piles surrounding her, his hand stroking her back as she did.
She got up and walked over to the kitchen, 'Come on. Let's see what we can find.'
Gerald stood and followed her into the kitchen. He sat down at the table next to his mother who was staring out of the window, a cold piece of toast sitting on a plate in front of her.
'Is she always like that?' Sally asked as she dug through the refrigerator.
'Yeah,' Gerald said, picking up his mother's toast and taking a bite. 'I wish I knew what she was thinking.'
'Just ask her, Ger.' Sally found a birthday cake in the fridge and cut two slices.
'Yeah,' Gerald chewed the cold toast. 'Maybe next time.'

The next morning Gerald found a scribbled note resting on his chest. Red ink ran up his arm, the paper was scratched and torn as if he had tried to write on it while holding it in the air. After turning on the lights Gerald flattened the note out on his desk and tried to decipher what it read.
“Sal's got a (something) happy birth... ask Mum.”
Gerald wondered who Sal was. His birthday was a few days ago, maybe he dreamt about that. He had no idea what he was supposed to ask his mother about, or how he was supposed to do that. Gerald eventually gave up and threw the note into his waste basket.
Chewing a piece of toast at the kitchen table, Gerald stared out of the window. The orange leaves fluttered around the trees, but no men appeared this time. After breakfast Gerald grabbed his jacket and walked out the front door.
He wandered aimlessly around the streets until he spotted a familiar looking red brick house. Gerald made his way up to the front door and rang the bell. After about ten minutes, Gerald rang the bell again. The door opened a fraction and Gerald saw a familiar face peek out at him.
'Hello?'
He had trouble remembering where he had met her before. 'Hi,' he said.
She opened the door wide and a confused look crossed her face, 'Hey.'
Gerald smiled, he didn't know what else to do.
'The guy from uni, right?' She said, her hand resting on the doorknob.
'Yeah, medicine,' Gerald smiled.
'What's up?' She looked bothered.
'Can I come in?'
Her eyebrows pulled together and she tilted her head slightly. 'How did you know where I lived?'
Gerald wondered the same thing. 'I didn't,' he answered truthfully.
She pulled the door closer to herself, and stepped back a fraction into the house. 'You didn't?'
'Is this a bad time?' Gerald asked. 'I could come back later.'
'Why would you come back?'
'Can we talk?'
'I guess so,' she held onto the door. 'What's up?'
Gerald realised he looked like an idiot. He didn't know how he found this house. He had no idea who this girl was, except she studied at the university. 'I'm sorry, this is going to sound weird.'
'Go on,' she said.
'A guy disappeared the other day. I don't know who he was.'
She smirked. 'Yeah, guys around here will do that.'
'No, I mean he was just gone.'
'Happens all the time,' she frowned. 'You need to find yourself a nice guy who won't run off on you, okay honey?'
Gerald didn't understand.
'I hope that helps,' she said and closed the door.
Gerald made his way home, his head spinning.

Updates

More of this week's yarn, also the first bit has been re-edited (it's a work in progress, sue me.)


Clouds hung low over the hospital on the day of Gerald Smith's birth. An excruciatingly long and painful labour by all accounts, one Gerald's late mother never seemed to get over. On his sixteenth birthday, two weeks before she died of a stroke, she smiled and looked through the kitchen window. Her toast went cold with the chill of winter approaching, and the unending thoughts that Gerald would never know.
Gerald's childhood brought back strange memories whenever he let his mind drift back. Accidentally braking Tommy Johnson's arm in the third grade left a scar somewhere in his mind that refused to heal. Since the incident, Gerald always sat quietly by himself and shook his head if asked to come and play. Being dropped from the football team in seventh grade made the scar itch. He never meant for anyone to get hurt, and never expected he could hurt a boy twice his size.
Bullying came from all angles when Gerald made it to high-school. But he never came home with a black-eye or a bloodied nose easily outrunning the punches and kicks, and after enough distance, even the taunts. He knew he could probably win a fight if he had to, but he never tried. Gerald avoided trouble and by the tenth grade, trouble avoided him.
On the day his mother died Gerald went into the principal's office to learn the news. He didn't cry, he simply thanked the principal for letting him have the rest of the day off, taking his time on the long walk home.

Gerald Smith spent his eighteenth birthday alone at home, watching television. He bought a beer, and deciding he didn't like the taste, poured it out. Gerald wondered about his father, who he had never known. And he wondered about his mother, deciding he had never really known her either. She would stare into space; blank walls and open windows commanded her attention more than Gerald ever did. He never interrupted her and waited until she shook her head, and blinked her tired eyes, before asking what she was thinking about.
'Nothing dear,' she would always say, giving him a curious look.
'Okay.'
Gerald stared through the kitchen window that intoxicated his mother so often, rubbing the label on the empty beer bottle absent-mindedly with his thumb. The last leaves of autumn clung to the tree branches, fluttering to the ground whenever a sharp gust kicked up. Noise from the television became a faint crackle and Gerald saw a man floating near one of the grey trees.
The man wore a grey jumper with the hood pulled over his head, hiding his face. Gerald watched as he dangled in the air before vanishing. Turning his head away from the window, Gerald saw the shattered remains of the beer bottle he had been clutching so tightly. Green glass shards stuck into his fingers and Gerald went about pulling them out and cleaning up his mess.

That night Gerald dreamt about the floating man. The dream began with Gerald sitting in the kitchen holding his empty beer bottle. When the man appeared near the tree outside the window, Gerald found himself levitating inches above his seat. As it was a dream, Gerald felt no fear about his new-found ability to float and glided comfortably towards the kitchen window to get a better look at the man.
When he reached the window, Gerald just floated through it, still in a sort of sitting position. He hovered now, close to the man, who looked through him as if he wasn't there. Gerald noted the sweat marks on the man's jumper, the distinctive logo printed in blue on the front, and a nasty gash across the man's face which bled profusely.
Droplets of blood fell onto the grey jumper, the man's eyes widened, staring into space as Gerald's mother had done so many times, and then he vanished.
Upon waking, Gerald fetched a scrap of paper from his desk and wrote down everything he saw. He then climbed back into bed and fell asleep.

The hastily scrawled note at first surprised Gerald when he finally found it the next evening. He couldn't recall if the details in the note were from a dream, or if they were something he had seen during the day. The scribbled red ink read; 'Man, mid-twenties, State Uni sweater.' And, that was all. He read the note again and put it in his pocket before grabbing his jacket and stepping out into the cold night air.
The sun was still up enough to cast a pink glow across the sky, burning the jagged clouds a deep purple. Gerald walked along the path behind his house and watched his step, avoiding the dead orange leaves that lined the gravel. Within fifteen minutes he had entered the sprawling State University campus.
Gerald had wanted to go to a University. It didn't necessarily have to be this one, but he had wanted to go. After his mother died, Gerald resigned himself to the fact that he would have to work to support himself. He didn't resent his mother for dying, his only regret was not ever being sure what was happening in her head.
With his hands buried deep in his pockets, Gerald roamed around the campus, stopping to admire the buildings and statues of old scholars. He walked past several students clutching books to their chests and running to make the last bus. Some he recognised from high-school, but knowing they wouldn't recognise him, he walked on.
As Gerald turned the corner of a particularly old-looking building a girl about his age ran into him, falling backwards and dropping her pile of books. Gerald removed his hands from his pockets and walked towards where she had landed. She had already gathered the precious literature before she looked up towards him.
'I'm so sorry,' her voice cracked on the last word.
Gerald held out his hand and helped her up. 'What are you studying?'
'English, oh. You mean this?' She looked down at her books.
Gerald nodded.
'Late eighties graphic novels.'
'Like comics?'
Her eyes glistened pink, mirroring the last of the glowing sky. 'Like, how were America's social fears at the time projected in pop-culture.'
'Are you writing an essay on it?' Gerald watched as her shoulders sagged at the mention of the word “essay.”
'Yeah.' She looked up at him and cocked her head to the side slightly, only for a second. 'What are you studying?'
'Medicine.'
'Oh,' her shoulders sagged again and she looked down at her books before glancing away. Gerald didn't know why he lied, something told him to say medicine. Her eyes flashed up at him, 'do you like it?'
'No. You're not missing out on anything.'
She smiled and blushed, cocking her head to the side again. Gerald returned the smile. Her hands fumbled with the books until they were safely tucked under one arm before she extended her right hand. 'Nice to meet you...?'
'Gerald.'
'Gerald.' She shook his hand. 'Sally.'
'Sally.'
'I have to go Gerald. Don't want to miss the last bus.'
'You won't,' Gerald smiled. She gave him a puzzled look and smiled before shuffling past. Gerald watched as she did a sort of semi-jog and disappeared between two buildings.

Around the next corner, of the building that Gerald discovered was the library, he saw two young men huddled up against the wall. He turned to leave when he heard one of the men whimper, the noise carried by the wind. Gerald watched as a man in a black jacket shoved a man in a grey hooded jumper against the wall.
The man in the grey jumper whimpered again and Gerald walked over, his hands still in his pockets.
'Fuck off!' The man in the jacket spat at Gerald, sensing his presence. Gerald stepped over and put his arms between the two men, separating them. Gerald realised he had his eyes closed when he heard a loud thump followed by another harsh crash. He opened his eyes and saw the man in the black jacket lying on the ground, his nose dripping blood. The man in the grey jumper was slumped on the ground at Gerald's feet.
'Jesus Christ! You can have his fucking money!' The man in the black jacket scrambled to stand and quickly ran away.
Gerald looked down at the man in the grey jumper, his hood covering his face. Dark blotches of blood began to seep through the back of the hood and Gerald saw a large crack in the brick wall of the library. He leant down and placed his hand inside the hood, feeling warm blood drip onto his fingers.
When Gerald gently titled the man's head towards him, he saw a deep gash across his face that ran from the neck up to the hairline. The man's eyes widened before he vanished. Gerald looked down at where the man had been slumped and wondered why he had disappeared. The crack on the library wall, and the blood on Gerald's fingers were the only evidence that he had ever existed.
Gerald wiped his fingers against the brick wall, leaving long streaks of blood. He then put his hands in his pockets and made his way home.


There is more to come, it doesn't end there! I'm getting a little cliff-hangerish with this one. I'll post more when it exists.

This week's work

Here are the first few hundred words of a short story I'll be working on this week. It doesn't have a title yet, but I have a few ideas about where it is going. Any input would be great. I'm sort of experimenting with the magic-realism style that Gabriel Garcia Marquez used, it's somewhat hard to do, seeing as I normally write very strictly in the realism style but it's very fun to let go of logic and it gives your imagination a work-out.


Clouds hung low over the hospital on the day of Gerald Smith's birth. An excruciatingly long labour by all accounts, one Gerald's late mother never seemed to get over. On his sixteenth birthday, two weeks before she died of a stroke, she smiled and looked out of the kitchen window. Her toast going cold with the chill of winter approaching and unending thoughts that Gerald would never know.
As a young boy Gerald was never the biggest kid, but he had an unnatural strength that frightened him. Since he accidentally broke Tommy Johnson's arm in the third grade, Gerald shook his head whenever he was asked to play. In the seventh grade he was dropped from the local football team after an especially rough tackle that left a boy with concussion.
'You're too rough,' the coach said.
'I'm sorry.'
At high-school Gerald was hardly ever bullied, only because he was too fast. Even for the older boys who chased him around the corridors until they gave up, panting and cursing. He knew he could probably win a fight if he had to, but he never tried. Gerald avoided trouble and by the tenth grade, trouble avoided him.
On the day his mother died Gerald was called into the principal's office to hear the news. He didn't cry, he simply thanked the principal for letting him have the rest of the day off. He took his time walking home that day.

Gerald Smith spent his eighteenth birthday alone at home, watching television. He bought a beer and deciding he didn't like the taste, poured the rest out. Gerald wondered about his father, who he had never known. And he wondered about his mother, deciding he had never really known her either. She would stare into space, blank walls and open windows demanded her attention more than Gerald ever did. He never interrupted her and waited until she shook her head and blinked her tired eyes before asking what she was thinking about.
'Nothing dear.'
'Okay.'
Gerald stared out through the kitchen window, his thumb rubbing the label on the empty beer bottle. The last leaves of autumn clung to the tree branches, fluttering to the ground whenever a sharp gust kicked up. Noise from the television became a faint crackle and Gerald saw a man floating near one of the grey trees.
The man wore a navy hooded jumper, obscuring his face. Gerald watched as he dangled in the air before vanishing. Once the man was gone, Gerald looked down to find that he had shattered the beer bottle. Green glass shards stuck into his fingers and Gerald went about pulling them out and cleaning up his mess.

Fresh "content."

With uni over I have some free time to continue my writing. I'm aiming to have one fresh short each week, and maybe more if I am feeling up to it. Hope you enjoy.

Buffalo
By Tim Harvey

The floorboards creaked under Anthony's heavy boots and he paused in the dim light. Did he hear that? No, he didn't. Anthony held his position in the barely lit hallway, sweat soaking through the navy wool balaclava covering his face. It must be in this room, he thought as he lifted one foot and tested the boards. They groaned again, but quieter than before, giving Anthony the confidence to take another step.
He slid up against the wall and tested the door handle to his left. It whined quietly and Anthony's gloved hand muffled most of the mechanical clicking of the old relic. He pushed the door open a fraction and leant over, peering into the darkness. This was the room, Anthony knew it. The window let in enough of the moon's shadowed glow to illuminate the ancient armoire in the corner. It must be in there, it has to be.
Anthony crept into the room and eased the door shut behind him. As he walked over to the armoire he was struck by the sickening feeling that he had been caught. His pace faltered and he stood, almost crouched in the centre of the room. Although he couldn't see who it was, he knew there were eyes on him from across the room.
Surely he would say something. Completely exposed, Anthony considered fleeing. He would have a gun on me. He must.
'What now?' The mumbled words were barely audible, even to Anthony. He waited. No reply.
Slowly turning his head, Anthony saw the glistening eyes watching him from the corner. He turned back to the armoire and continued his stealthy trip across the room. The heavy wooden doors opened easily, and without a sound. The prize was there on the top shelf.
'Did this get you too?' Anthony asked towards the eyes as he took the wooden box down from the shelf. After unlatching the small brass lock Anthony slid the top open and took a moment to observe what lie there.
The gold embellishments of the long-barrelled Colt shone in the moonlight. The glistening varnish of the heavy wooden grip, and the immaculately polished steel of the gun took Anthony's breath away. He lifted it out of its velvet-lined coffin and held it up to his eyes. Running his fingers along the barrel felt like bliss. One-hundred and fifty years old, history in his hands.
The barrel rotated easily, well-oiled and ready for war. Anthony eased the hammer back, watching the chambers revolve with military precision.
'Did this get you too?' He asked the eyes again, raising the heavy pistol towards them. 'How old are you?'
The great white buffalo head eyed him with disdain. Mounted and stuffed, the last of his kind to ever roam the Earth. History, hanging on a wooden board.
'You're all locked away in here,' Anthony said to the pistol in his hand, pulling it close to his face. 'Hidden from view.'
He remembered the first time he saw the gun, at the shooting range. The old man had brought it in to show off to his buddies. They marvelled and asked if he would ever fire it. No, he replied. It's too old. Anthony swore if he ever had such a firm grasp on the past he would use it. He followed the old man to his house and hid outside until late at night. He would have that gun. He would use it.
Now, with the pistol in his hand, Anthony faltered. The drive to use this gun, this pistol that had probably killed, was gone. Who knew how many Southerners this gun had wiped from existence, in the name of the Union? Who knew which officer carried this piece into battle, or if it even saw combat?
'What am I doing?' The words were dry, and the buffalo watched on, asking the same question. What are you doing? Anthony slid the gun back into its navy-velvet home and eased the lid of the case shut. He placed it back on the top shelf and closed the doors of the armoire.
'Did that gun get you too?' He asked the buffalo once more. There was no reply, no answer. Anthony sighed, realising he would never know.
He crept down the hallway and climbed out of the window that he had entered by. There was no answer, there was no explanation. Anthony would have to make his own truth.

Back

Hi. I know i haven't posted here for quite a while. Starting a new job and studying full time has really eaten into my writing time in the past few months. I hope to get back into doing some more creative writing, but I can't say for sure if I'll be able to make the time.

The only thing I can do is try to give myself a bit of time each day to focus on my writing, even if it is only a few minutes.

I wrote this little piece just now. It is a bit of a stream-of-consciousness type piece about a few thoughts and feelings I've been having lately. Mainly in regards to my new job. Hope you enjoy it, and hope I can keep writing some more stuff in the future.


Untitled
By Tim Harvey


I watch the smoke drift out of the tip of my cigarette. It curls so gently in the morning breeze. A blue ribbon of translucent energy unfurling in front of me. The early sun highlights the smoke, it is neon blue. As the wind kicks up the smoke curls faster, dancing through the air before disappearing into nothing. When the breeze dies the neon ribbon returns, elegant in its simplicity. It doesn't end, like a magician pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve. It keeps pouring out of my cigarette.

I sit in the sun alone, too early for everyone else. My mind is numb from lack of sleep, my body aching and stiff. I tried imagining myself walking down a flight of stairs. When I reach the bottom, I will fall asleep. The stairs never end though. I tried counting down from one hundred, when I reach zero, I tell myself, I will fall asleep. My heart raced as I got to ten. The few minutes of counting became my life.

Nine. My heart is thudding in my chest. What happens when I stop counting?
Eight. It cannot end. Seven. I am too awake to fall asleep. Six. Too tired to stay awake. I roll over, the illusion is shattered now. Five. It won't work. Four. I still don't know what will happen when I run out of numbers. Three. It's too soon. Two. Close. One.

Zero.

I am still awake.

Now I sit outside in the sun watching my cigarette. The smoke changes with the rise and fall of the breeze. A different pattern, a different dance. The ribbon widens, becomes a jellyfish. Transparent, but glowing. Changes. I think of my life, and the changes I am going through. One minute everything is set, the plan is made. But then it changes. It is all new. I rush into things too fast because they excite me. I cancel my plans, make new ones. Then I settle and become frightened that I haven't thought anything through. I have made a mistake.
I have a new life, a new plan. Everything is new and exciting. Then old things come back. Old feelings, old habits. They don't fit in with my new life. But they force their way back into my world. I become afraid again.

The smoke glides gently through the air. What happens when the cigarette goes out? I miss my friends. They are here, but I don't know them. Maybe I never did. Maybe I'm too tired to remember. I cough, shattering the illusion. The cigarette falls out of my hand and onto the cold cement. The smoke is gone.

I sat there worrying about what would happen when the cigarette goes out. When it burns its way to the filter. Would it burn my fingers? Now the cigarette lies on the floor below my chair. I didn't plan for that. I have no idea what is coming for me next.

I worry about what path to choose. I waste time over analysing every detail of everything. There is no right path. The only right thing to do is start walking.

I write, and worry about what happens when I run out of words. But I haven't written like this for a very long time. It's more like a few months, but it feels like forever. I write easier and more freely than I ever have. I write like I am drunk. The words drift from my head, down my arms and into my fingertips. They slide out of my sleeve like a magician's handkerchief.

They will end eventually.

But I don't have to worry about that. I am having too much fun enjoying the trick.

Tiny Post

Just a quick beginning of a romance story.


Tim Harvey


'Oh God!' Kaylee's fiery whisper hit Annie's ear through the moulded plastic of her iPod headphones. 'Check it out!'
Annie already knew the drill. Dipping her head slightly and flashing her eyes to the left she spotted him. Tall, dark and handsome? Not really. Tall, not-so-dark and hot? Definitely.
'He's back!' Kaylee hissed with potent excitement.
He had never left, Annie thought. Despite Kaylee's keen eye for cute guys, this time Annie had outdone her. Several quick glances, easily disguised as stretching or fishing for something elusive in her bag, had led Annie to finally beat Kaylee at her own game. But best not to gloat.
'So he is,' Annie muttered through pursed smirking lips. Her eyes fixed dead ahead. Apparently she was insanely interested in the goings-on across the crowded, rush-hour food court.
Kaylee moaned. 'God! Check the suit!'
Annie had already “checked the suit.” She liked. She liked a lot. If only all men could have the decency to wear a suit like that. No off-the-rack suit tapers in from broad shoulder to slender waist like that. It was a modern suit, grey, but not shiny. Actually quite muted. The shirt was white, and for the first time Annie had to agree, lavender might be too much.
'I know, right?' Annie leaned in to her friend. Mr. Tall, Not-so-dark and Hot was safely way across the food court, by Annie felt much more comfortable confiding with Kaylee in hushed tones.
'Uhh,' Kaylee let out another moan and rested her elbows on the table around her salad. 'Imagine the possibilities.' Her sleepy-eyed stare caused Annie to giggle.
'Go talk to him then,' she nudged her friend on the arm.
'Maybe I will,' Kaylee closed her eyes, her mouth forming into a wide Cheshire-cat grin. 'Maybe I will,' she repeated dreamily.
'Maybe not,' Annie broke Kaylee's lustful daze. The look of desertion on her face was priceless, Annie thought as Kaylee spied Mr. Tall and whatnot greeting his girlfriend. 'Sorry, he's taken.'
'Allegedly,' Kaylee retorted before returning to her daydream. 'Why do I have to talk to him?' She lifted her head and slapped her palms on the table, rattling her salad, and several nearby patrons. 'He should come talk to me,' she said with a bitter mix of sarcasm and nostalgia.
'You're so old-fashioned,' Annie dismissed her friend's cry for attention. Feeling bad about her hard tone, she added, 'You can approach to a guy if you want to.'
'That's just it,' Kaylee said with a sly grin, 'I don't want to approach them.'
Annie smiled at this. She knew exactly what Kaylee meant.

Big Update

Have done some more on my last story. This is turning into a bigger thing than I first imagined. Still don't have a title though.


Untitled Story (More from the last post)
Tim Harvey


Waiting rooms always seem to be cold. I don't know why they seem this way. It is probably because of the white walls. The absolute lack of decoration on the walls. I look above the curly purple-rinsed hair of several rows of elderly women to the stark walls. The walls go up and up forever. The ceiling is white and the seam between it and the walls is almost invisible.
I absent-mindedly reach out and grasp for Jeff's hand. My eyes are fixed to the cold sterile abyss above me, but Jeff's hand warms mine. My eyes drift to his face. I wonder how he can be so warm. He looks as white as the walls. I squeeze his hand tightly.
Three days have passed since the morning of the book launch. Since the morning I found out. I still can't say it properly. Not until we find out for sure. I reach out to hold my stomach with my other hand, but it glides straight over. Drawn to Jeff's hand like a magnet.
Our flights are booked. That's something else to warm my freezing body. We leave for Tahiti in two weeks. We have two weeks booked at a resort. It's a good one, Jeff says. His brother and sister-in-law went there for their honeymoon. I want to recharge.
We didn't get return flights. We're going to Singapore after and moving through Asia. We have a few things booked. Some things we're going to take as they come. We are going to Europe after that. We haven't booked anything for Europe yet. Take it as it comes. This is our adventure. Our honeymoon will be at home. Whatever that means.
'Ms... Harwood?' She wears a white coat. I can barely make her out standing there in front of the wall.
'Yes?' I reply. Jeff squeezes my hand and stifles a cough as he shifts his body in the chair.
'Sarah? You can come through now.' I smile and nod. I pull Jeff with me. He moves slowly, but he follows along. His bug hasn't gone away. We are sure it was the chicken dinner. I didn't have any. Jeff's Dad said he felt crook the next morning too. He had the chicken.
I'm groggy. I haven't had much sleep lately. These last few days have been horrible. The last of the nicotine is gone from my system, but I still crave it. Jeff has been sleeping well though. We have been keeping each other up, but he is exhausted, and I can't sleep. I watch him roll over, panting heavily. He is out like a light.
'Okay.' The doctor has me in the chair.
I wander the apartment at night. I have made up a scrap book already. There is nothing to put in it. I've never made a scrapbook before. I don't know why I made this one. It opens with photos from Jeff's launch. There is a copy of the invite there.
On the next page I have stuck printed pictures of the travel websites. The book is large, huge. It has a red leather cover. It's fake leather. I like the feel of running my fingers across the cover. The texture is captivating in some way.
'Congratulations,' she says.
I forget where I got that book from. I've had it for ages, I know that. Where did I get that book from? I ask Jeff, but he is focussed on something else. I think it might have been a gift. I feel my face warm, finally.
Yes, it was a gift. My Aunt gave it to me after my High-School graduation. I remember now. She told me; “Sarah, you'll know when to use this.” I don't know when to use it. I think it should be used for our adventure.
Jeff holds something in front of my eyes. I can't see it. It is blurred and out of focus. I think we should make sure to get lots of photos for the scrapbook. Everything is digital these days. I wish we had an old-style film camera. I should ask Jeff if he can get us one. Where would we get the photos developed?
'It is developed Sarah.' He holds the thing closer.
I wipe my eyes.
'We can put this in the scrapbook,' Jeff smiles. His eyes are red, but his face is still grey. I see sweat on his brow.
'I guess.' I turn my head away. The scrapbook if for us.

I sit in the waiting room. It is still cold. Jeff isn't here, the doctor wanted to have a word with him about his cough. I think they are talking about me. I don't care. We're both healthy. I don't think we'll be coming back here, when we have to get our shots.
I think we need to get a malaria shot. I'm not sure. We need some shots though, I'm certain of it. Maybe not for Tahiti, but definitely for Asia. We're not supposed to drink the local water either. I know that. We'll have to get bottled water.
There is so much to plan. I wonder if we should have thought it through a bit more. No, this is good. Jeff says it is good. He is taking his time with the doctor though. I feel my face redden. What must she think of me? I pull the small black-and-white photograph from my bag.
There is a tiny shape in the blurry sonar lines. Pressing my hand to my stomach, I try to feel it. For the last few days I was certain there was nothing there. I can feel something now. Wiping tears from my eyes, I check the time again.
They have been in there for twenty minutes. I am about to stand when I see Jeff walk out from the office. He smiles at me weakly. I move to him and place my hand on his chest.
There is a bandage on his arm. 'Just some blood tests.'
Jeff takes me by the hand and we leave the doctor's.

Days pass by quickly. I flick through the scrapbook. There are a few more travel pictures. I have dedicated a page to the photo. I can say it now.
There is a page dedicated to the baby.
Jeff is feeling better. The doctor will ring us with his results soon. But he is doing much better. Jeff doesn't tell me what he spoke to the doctor about. I don't ask. If they were talking about me I don't want to know. I feel much better.
During the day we sit on the sofa that Jeff has pulled across the living room to the balcony door. We open the door and let the warm winds blow through the room, washing us clean. I lie in his arms and we watch the sun move across the sky. Everything has stopped. We watch the sun for days and it feels like it doesn't move.
He kisses my neck and I know something is wrong. We are waiting for something. Jeff doesn't do anything. He wants to hold me. I feel that time will remain still until we get that phone call. I don't want to ask what they spoke about. It feels like Jeff is trying to have our adventure now.
I don't like it.

'Yes. No, I will. Yep... As soon as possible. Monday... Okay. Thank you.' Jeff takes the call. He looks so much better. He is eating, and we are staying up very late. We are both sleeping afterwards. I look at the photo of our baby daily. My fingers glide across the image and I try to trace the same pattern on my bare stomach.
'What's the verdict?' There is a knot in my stomach.
Jeff wanders around the living room, drifting towards the sofa where I sit. 'More tests.'
I have to ask now. 'What did the doctor say Jeff?'
He slumps down next to me and places his arm around my shoulder. I watch as he traces his finger around the photograph, pasted into the scrapbook on my lap. His eyes are distant and foggy. We are so close, but there is something holding him back. Something is stopping him from speaking. I watch his finger move in circles around the small grey blob in the photo.
He flicks his eyes up to mine and inhales. He tries his best to be casual, but he fails when his voice cracks. 'She said I might have cancer.'
I laugh, instantly throwing my hand to my mouth. He smiles and brushes hair from my eyes. He waits patiently.
'Wait,' I say. 'Cancer?' I repeat.
'She said my sickness was unusual and could be the symptoms of something worse.' He strokes my cheek. 'I didn't tell you, but there was blood in my uh... In my sick.' He looks away.
'Are you serious?' The giggles are gone.
'Well, she wants to do more tests. It's a worst-case-scenario.' He looks so much better. The colour has returned to his face.
I feel angry. I don't know why. Because he didn't tell me he was throwing up blood? Because he picked the worst time – I stop myself. The anger is so strong. I feel a strange pressure, just behind my nose, and tears begin to well up. This week has been all tears.
'Sarah,' he strokes my cheek so gently it's as if he isn't touching me at all. His voice is so quiet and calm. 'It's okay.'
I feel my eyebrows pull tightly together. My face is burning. I cannot look at him.
'It's going to be okay.'
I fall into his chest and he clasps his arms tightly around me. I feel him rocking gently and stroking my hair.
'What cancer? How?' I mumble into his chest.
'She thinks bowel. I've got a family history. I'm going to a specialist on Monday.' He didn't mention this to me before. I feel the anger burning up inside me again. Would I have let him into my life with a history like that? No, I don't think so. Everything isn't going to be okay. I can feel it so deeply and so surely in my gut. Nothing is going to be okay.
'Hey,' he whispers. 'If this happens. If this is going to happen –' His voice cracks. 'I'm not giving up on you.'
The icy shards of pain that had stabbed holes in my stomach begin to melt slowly.
'I'm not going anywhere.' His voice warms me. There is no hint of deception in his tone. He really believes that. And now so do I.
My eyes droop as Jeff rocks me gently back and forth. The warm sun on my face pulls layers of warmth over me like a fluffy quilt.

A young man stands before me. He has short cropped dark hair. His shirt is slightly baggy and I notice a small scratch on his razor-burnt face. I cannot help but smile at his awkwardness.
He raises a clammy hand to me, 'Miss Harwood?'
I take it, despite the sweat, 'Sarah, please.'
'Sorry,' his face is so red. I thought the razor-burn was bad, but now his face is redder than I could have imagined.
'Jeff, right?' I say, releasing his hand.
'Yeah,' so awkward. He's not bad looking though. I catch myself. So soon Sarah?
'Jeff can I ask you something?' I have to know.
'Sure,' he is confused.
'Do you have a driver's licence, Jeff?'
'Sure,' still confused.
'Can I see it?' I know what I'll see.
He fumbles with the wallet in his back pocket. He even drops it on the floor. I can't believe that he actually dropped it. When he stands, offering me the card, I am trying my best not to laugh.
I take the card and nod, 'I knew it.' His face is bright red. 'You look better with the beard Jeff.' I hand him his licence back.
He smiles and returns the licence to his wallet. Rubbing his cheek, that looks like it is on fire, he cocks an eyebrow at me. 'Got a thing for beards, Sarah?'
I am taken completely off guard. This guy that was so awkward only a few seconds ago had managed to stop me in my tracks. I stand there watching him. His smile widens. He knows that he got me.
'You look better without the razor-burn,' I smile and watch his cheeks flush again. You won't get me that easy, Jeff. 'Follow me.'
I lead him through the offices to a small meeting room. He follows along eagerly. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to check that he is still there. His eyes are darting around the office. His tie is adorable. Nobody here wears a tie.
When we reach the meeting room, he quickly pulls his tie over his head and puts it into his bag. He flicks his eyes up to me, 'I just thought – You know?'
'It's no problem,' I assure him. 'So you know what we're all about here?'
'No idea,' he smiles as he takes a seat at the table. I feel myself frown. I have only been here for a few months myself. I barely know what was going on. And, I have more important things to worry about than taking care of the new-guy. Namely, taking care of myself.
'Well, you'll be working with me. Basically it's phone sales. What experience do you have?'
'I have an Arts degree.'
I cannot contain my laughter at the way he says “Arts degree.” He knows what that means in the real world. He knows exactly what that means.
'Yeah, me too.' I say it with the same lack of pride that he showed. He smiles at this. 'It's not all bad. Did you just graduate?'
'Yeah, last semester.' He is warm and confident now. I notice his body is relaxed. Besides the razor-burn his face is a normal colour.
'I graduated mid-year,' I say freely. We can get to work later.
'Oh cool. So you're... What? Twenty-two?' He leans on the table, moving towards me.
'Close, twenty-three. You?' I feel myself leaning in slightly too.
'Same.' He says it easily, and I know I am frowning slightly because he looks much younger. But, I feel at ease around him. I haven't had a normal conversation with anyone here since I started. Everyone else working here is much older and it feels good to be sitting across the table from someone my own age.
Something in my stomach moves. I inhale deeply as I feel a strange stabbing pain in my abdomen. I look down and see nothing. When I look up, Jeff looks different. He has a pained expression on his face. He looks older. His hair is longer, and there are slight lines on his face. His razor-burn is gone, replaced by a light dusting of stubble.
He seems familiar but I don't recognise him. He tilts his head to the side, and his eyes become glazed and distant. I notice his skin has a yellow tint to it.
'Jeff?' What is wrong with him? He doesn't answer. His eyes are lifeless and hollow. His hair is longer, but it is thinning on the top. His skin looks rough. I watch as he takes in a deep breath, not conscious that I am even in the room.
His cheeks are drawn in and shallow. His face, so round only moments ago, is hollow and skeletal. I cannot help but hold my hand to my mouth. Jeff's jaw drops slightly and I see that he is missing several teeth. His gums are a horrible yellowish grey.
He looks around the room distantly. Strands of hair fall from his head. As he looks at the door, I notice he is bald on the back. When he looks back to me his eyes are sunken and dead. Grey and terrible. I feel sick.
Out of nowhere I feel an immense pressure in my stomach. Something is growing in there. Pain rips through my torso. Horrible searing pain. I look down and see that my stomach has expanded with the pressure.
'Jeff! Help me!' I look up and hear a terrible scream when I see the rotten corpse slumped on the table across from me.

'I'm here.' The words are distant. 'Sarah, wake up.'
I have to blink several times to clear the image from my mind. I look out of the balcony door and see the moon full and high in the sky. I look up and Jeff is cradling me in his arms. He looks healthy. He looks so much better.
'You were having a bad dream,' he whispers gently. I feel that strange pressure behind my nose again and wait for the tears.
'It's okay. I'm not going anywhere.'
His words make the pressure build and the tears flow feely down my cheeks. 'Promise me Jeff. Promise me,' I whisper groggily into his chest.
He hesitates and I feel a rush of pain in my chest. I hold my breath until he finally speaks, 'I promise.'
I don't know. I don't know what is going to happen. I just don't know.
Jeff takes my hand and we go into the bedroom. We slide under the satin sheets and he kisses me gently on the lips. I have a terrible taste in my mouth, but I kiss him back. I roll over and he holds me tight until the morning. He eventually falls asleep, but I can't.

**

I slide out of bed, leaving Jeff to sleep. The early morning sun seeps in through a crack in the curtains and I feel a strange energy coming from the light. As I move around the bed and through the streaming sunlight it is as if I have moved through some kind of forcefield. The carpet is soft and my feet sink into it's comforting embrace. I take a step back into the forcefield. It is so warm.
Jeff rolls over on the bed and I want him to feel what I feel. My hand reaches out and swings the curtain open so that the light and warmth bathes the whole room. I blink and hear Jeff groan on the bed. The curtain gently swings back as I release it, causing the room to dim again.
When my feet hit the bathroom tiles they miss the carpet. I step into the shower and turn the chrome tap. Droplets of crystal clear water erupt from the shower head. They expand and glide towards my face, caught in gravity's trap. I feel my eyelids become heavy and they close before the droplets can hit me.
Waiting rooms are always so cold. I wait for the warm water. When my eyes open I can see the droplets moving slowly towards me. They are intricate sculptures and beads of glass. Their movement is frozen, but they look as if they are warm. I want the warmth to wash over me.
When they finally hit my face I inhale sharply. The breath has caused time to resume its usual course and the water flows quickly over me. I get the feeling that all the clocks in the apartment have just sprung into life. Hands moving freely after the slightest moment of peace. It feels good to take a break.
My head drops, and I let the water rush down onto me. I let the breath out and inhale warm cleansing steam. Hair falls into my face, and through the twisting dripping mass of blonde I watch my body. It will change, I think. But time has returned to normal now. The last week has been a blur, but I feel as if time will no longer get away from me. It is a good feeling.
The stomach before me is flat and as I let my hands glide smoothly over the wet skin, I can clearly see the months ahead being long. I inhale again and feel myself smiling. The rush, the urgency, the fears of blowing up seem to have faded. The months ahead are, for the first time, in perspective.
I turn around, letting the water run down my back. The smile will not go away. My hand rests over my mouth and I allow myself a few tears. They are good tears. Something finally feels good. I can't quite understand it. Last night I felt terrible, so terrible that I didn't sleep at all. But now I feel as if everything is in perspective. I can't skip ahead, nothing is blurry anymore. I hope this lasts. I lather up soap and shampoo and enjoy a long, long shower.

Jeff steps into the bathroom. I can see him through the foggy glass. He pops his head around the screen to find me sitting on the floor of the shower. I give him a wide smile and he smiles back.
'What are you doing down there?' He looks confused but calm.
'Wasting water,' I reply. My hands are held up in front of me and I watch as my cupped fingers fill with the crystal liquid.
'Will there be any left for me?' His smile is so childish, I cannot help but feel my face flush.
I hold my hand out for him and watch as he slides his underwear off before taking it. I smile as he slips a little and groans as he sits down next to me.
'How are you doing?' He asks. His arms are wrapped around me. The words are just whispers but we are so close I can hear him perfectly.
'I'm good,' I say back.
'Good,' he repeats. We sit in silence for a while and he strokes my back with his soft hand, pushing the flowing water around.
I look up at him and gently brush his hair from his face, slicking it back over his head. 'How are you doing?'
Jeff looks down at me and I can see activity behind his eyes. I can tell he doesn't want to upset me. There is a look he gets when he wants to say something, but can't. His eyes begin to glaze over and he looks down. Our legs are intertwined and spread out on the floor of the shower.
I lean in, cup my hand around his jaw and lightly kiss his cheek. 'Talk to me Jeff.'
His eyes blink furiously and I watch as his face contorts. I can see, and feel, him let out an enormous breath. His head swings down and I wrap my arms around his body, pulling him tightly to me. I stroke his back and give him time.
It feels like overnight our roles had reversed. Last night he was comforting me as a wave of pain forced me down under the ocean. A wave of uncertainty. Now I hold onto him as the wave finally hits. It worries me that a good night's sleep did nothing for him, and staying up has caused me to feel so fresh and alive. It doesn't make sense, but then again, not much has been making sense recently.
'What if it is cancer?' He says finally. I think over his question. It seems simple to me now, but I know the question will become more complex the longer I spend trying to work it out. I feel it is better to give Jeff the simple answer right now. It is what he needs.
'Then we'll deal with it.' The simple answer.
'But the baby, and you?' Jeff chokes. 'What will you do if –'
I cut him off right there, 'Shh.' That is another wave that I can see growing on the horizon. I put no thought into that ending, and I don't need that wave hitting me right now. Not while Jeff is feeling the first one.
I offer simple optimisms, 'It might not even be cancer. Besides,' I stroke his face, which is now resting on my shoulder, 'We can do it.'
I hear him do that strange laugh that people manage when they are crying. My mind drifts back to Jeff's book launch. We did that. We can do this. I feel the wave getting closer. The book was easy. This won't be so easy.
'Got a name yet?' I hear Jeff mutter as he strokes my stomach. There is a hint of humour in his tone, but I let him continue. 'We should call her “Hope”.'
I laugh and slap him on the back. 'That is awful,' I say between giggles.
'No, no,' he looks up and smiles. 'It's completely appropriate.'
I feel my smile fade. It's the first joke that I have heard Jeff make since the morning after the launch. 'We're not calling her “Hope”,' I say. 'Anyway, we don't know if it's a girl or a boy.'
'True,' Jeff says, deep in thought. 'What about Ingrid?'
I slap him on the back again.
'Astrid?'
'Do you want our little girl growing up thinking she's a witch?' I say after containing my giggles.
'Our little girl,' Jeff repeats. I place my hand over his on my stomach and we sit in silence for a while.
'Daddy wants you to be a witch,' I whisper down at my stomach with a smile.

We eat breakfast in silence, but I feel we are still communicating. I watch Jeff as I spoon cereal into my mouth. When he looks up at me he smiles and I nudge him on the arm. I watch his face go red and he returns to reading the paper. He is such a big kid, I think. He acts like a teenager going out on his first date.
I lean over and brush his hair out of his eyes and he looks up at me with a grin. I raise my eyebrows and smile, chewing on the cereal. His mouth is full of cereal too. I watch him point to the paper and he slides it across the counter to me.
I shrug, not knowing what article he was pointing to. He nudges my arm with a smile and points to a travel article. The headline reads; “Flights cancelled?” I look to him and he shrugs as if he is asking me the question.
A political headline on the next page reads; “Will the Government pull through on their election promises? We'll see.” I lay my arm over the headline and tell Jeff that “We'll see.”
He laughs and almost chokes on his cereal. I pat him on the back as he coughs.
He raises his hand and gives me the thumbs-up, coughing slightly. 'Good work,' he says once his throat is clear. I laugh.

We spend most of the day lounging around on the sofa, watching the sun move across the sky. Boredom builds up quickly and we have spent the last few days indoors. I suggest that we go for a walk and Jeff agrees. He normally likes hanging around the apartment, but he can see that I need some fresh air. I need to get outside and feel that warm sun.
We wander through the city, hand in hand. As the sun begins to set through the buildings I try to keep us in its warming glow. Taking different streets according to where the most light is shining, we wander aimlessly through the town. In one fateful turning we come across a restaurant that we had never been to.
I always pride myself on knowing the best eating spots in the city. I'm not really a social nut, always knowing what's going on in the social scene, but I do like to eat at nice places. Jeff always loves when I take him to a new restaurant. I think it's because he hates cooking so much. I do too.
The place has a small front that opens up when you get inside. Modern black and white décor and furniture are arranged neatly throughout the open space. I cannot tell what type of restaurant it is. It could easily be both Japanese and French. Everything is squares. The tables are square, the chairs are square. There is a water feature made of layers of black ceramic. They are all squares.
One thing catches my eye though. There is a large piece of art hanging on the far wall. It appears to be some sort of centrepiece to the whole place. It sticks out of the wall a few inches and is the shape of an enormous kidney bean. The thing is painted with bright greens and blues, and the rough thick paint gives the impression that it is made of water. There is a heavy glaze over the paint that reflects the light and makes the thing shimmer.
I decide that the colours really aren't that bright as we take a seat near the centrepiece. It only looks so bright because of the glaze and the fact that any colour at all is such a contrast to the rest of the décor. I make sure to take the seat facing the piece.
'What do you think of that?' I ask Jeff, my eyes fixed on the establishment.
'Well now,' Jeff begins with his best fake British accent. 'Rather droll, wouldn't you say?'
I laugh quietly. I feel anything more would ruin the evening for the sparse diners.
'I don't know,' Jeff adds seriously. 'It's nice.'
I smile, it is nice.

It turns out the restaurant was actually both Japanese and French. Some sort of post-modern fusion the chef tried to explain after our meals. It was quite incredible. I nudge Jeff and tell him that I knew it was Japanese and French. He smiles and jokes that he thought it was a burger joint.
On our way home I notice that Jeff is no longer at my side. I turn to see what he is looking at and watch as he stares longingly into the window of a liquor store. Jeff has always enjoyed a social drink, for as long as I have know him. I've seen him completely drunk on a few occasions and it never really bothered me. He always drank when he was enjoying himself, or to celebrate something or other. Watching him stare so melancholic through the window makes me feel uncomfortable.
He could have had his face pressed against the glass like a kid at a toy store, by the way he was looking. I make my way back to him, hands pressed into the pockets of my coat.
'Go on,' I say, nudging him with my elbow.
'No,' he begins, his eyes turning to me. 'No, I was just...' He trails off and his eyes turn back to the window.
'Hey,' I nudge him again. 'It's okay.'
He smiles at me and goes into the store. I wait outside and look at all the wine I won't be able to taste for the better part of the rest of the year. I sigh. I will miss a good glass of red on a quiet rainy night.
Jeff returns with a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.
'What'd you get?' I inquire. The bag looks like it is pressed against the shape of a square bottle. Definitely not wine.
He sheepishly pulls the bag down to reveal a bottle of scotch. I never really liked scotch, but Jeff loves the stuff. It wasn't bad with lemonade, I remember.
'I won't go through all of this,' Jeff assures me. I'm still worried that he is drinking out of depression for the first time since I have known him. Come to think of it, I haven't known Jeff to ever be depressed. I went through a rough patch when my Grandpa died, and Jeff was very supportive. But I was looking at the brighter side of life within a few weeks. This whole thing will take much longer than that.
'Should've got some rum,' I say as we are walking back towards home.
'Why?'
'I don't know if we'll be lounging around on the beach any time soon.' My answer seems to halt Jeff for a moment. He loses his step and hurries to correct his mistake. Was there something in the way I said it? I hope he doesn't think I was blaming him for ruining our adventure.
Ruining our adventure? But, it is ruined now, isn't it? My head swims with unanswerable questions all the way back to the apartment.

Jeff fills has glass with ice from the ice-maker in the fridge, and I watch very carefully as he measures out the scotch in his shot glass before pouring it over the ice. The is a nice cracking sound as the ice breaks in the glass.
Jeff smiles at me, reading my mind, 'Love that sound.'
He reaches up into the cupboard above the sink and pulls out an old crystal decanter. Carefully he pours the bottle in and rests the decanter on the counter. I sit on a stool, elbows planted on the counter top.
'What's with the decanter?' I ask.
'Gotta be fancy with a scotch like this,' Jeff glides around the bench and sits next to me on a stool. 'Gotta be a little bit posh with the expensive stuff.' He takes a sip and holds his head back pretending as if he is in heaven.
'How much was it?' It doesn't matter.
'A hundred and fifty bucks,' Jeff says casually.
'Give me a sip of that.' I have to know what one hundred and fifty dollar scotch tastes like.
Jeff hesitates before handing me the glass,'Just a sip, okay?'
'Sure,' I nod before letting the warm liquid hit my lips.
I roll the dribble of scotch around in my mouth before swallowing. 'Tastes just like the thirty dollar stuff,' I say truthfully.
Jeff mocks an expression of shock,' That, my dear, is because you are not as cultured as me.'
I laugh and poke him in the ribs. 'Not cultured? Hey, I was the one who knew it was a French/Japanese fusion restaurant, or whatever.'
'True, true,' Jeff smiles at me and takes another sip.
After a moment of silence I ask, 'Can I have a smoke?'
Jeff turns his head to me with a look of concern. 'Why are you asking me?' He knows why. He knows that I won't do anything to upset him.
I lean up against him and tell him, 'Because I love you.'
'Well in that case, you may have one.' Jeff smiles and rests his head on my shoulder. I like the way he says that I “may” have one. I go to my bag and get a cigarette. The packet sits heavily in my hand and I walk over to the bin to throw the rest away.
'Wait,' Jeff says. 'Give me one too.'
I hand him a cigarette and throw the rest away. 'Jeff you don't even smoke.'
'One won't kill me,' he says with a weak smile. We both don't want to think about it.
I go and pull the balcony door open and slump down in the sofa. Jeff comes and wraps his arm around my shoulders.
He already looks drunk and I wonder if this is going to be a long night.



I have a whole pile of ideas for where this will go and at present I'm thinking of making it into a novel. But we'll have to see. I'm having great fun writing the characters, and the roller-coaster ride of emotions they are going through. When I write a particularly depressing part I feel like I must give them a happy part. So the story is being fuelled by that at the moment. The next bit will have to be depressing however, to keep the pace and tone in balance.

New Story

This began as a draft of a short that I was working on for a competition, but it seems to have taken on a life of its own. I'm not sure where it'll end but I already have plenty of ideas. I'm also not really sure what this is, it just came out of nowhere really, so I don't have a title as of yet. Got a little inspiration for setting from a book launch that I went to recently. It was Amy T Matthew's book; End of the Night Girl. Read some already and it's pretty much incredible.

Totally listening to this while writing it. Such a classic; Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. So good for writing to.




Untitled Story (Sorry I don't have anything better at the moment)
Tim Harvey


'Hi, hello. Okay. I'd just like to thank Jack here for that great introduction.'
Applause.
'This has – This has been such a great experience. Just a – Uh. Yeah just a great, the most incredible experience. So, you all know about the book. I'd just like to take a few moments to say some thank you's. First off, thank you to my wonderful parents. Where are you? There they are. Thanks, Mum and Dad.'
Applause.
'Uh, without their support none of this would have happened. Thank you to Jill my agent, and editor. Again, a great support. Plenty of countless nights, and countless bottles of wine –'
Laughs.
'Yeah, plenty of bottles of wine went into this book.'
More laughs.
'But seriously, I couldn't have done it without your expertise, and your, your uh... Eye for detail. Things I would never have picked up. So, thank you Jill.'
Applause.
'But the one person in this room who I owe the most to. The one person who really made this possible, and she's right here –'
He flicks through the book in his hand.
'Right here at the start, it says; “To Sarah. Without you none of this would be possible.”'
Me.
'Sarah. My lovely fiancé. Right here –'
Applause. I blush, and wave.
'I met Sarah, after graduating uni. I had my Arts degree in my hand, and the sky was the limit. I wanted to write, full-time. But what I wanted more than that was to move out of my parent's house.'
Laughs. His Dad nods at the crowd, 'We wanted him out too.' More laughs.
'Yes, yes. So anyway, I hung up my writing boots, as it were.'
Laughs.
'I got a job. A real-life, nine-to-five. Working in an office. And, on my first day I was introduced to the most gorgeous girl I had ever met.'
Someone cheers. I blush.
'I didn't know what to say, I was so nervous. They told me I'd be working with Sarah here, and I froze. I just froze. Anyway we eventually got to know each other and, uh. Yeah, so we got together.'
Applause.
'The next year was pretty much all about work. But we managed to make time for each other. At Christmas I finally had the savings to move out, and I asked Sarah to move in with me. She said yes. So –'
Applause.
'So, we got our little apartment in town. Some of you might know it well. Anyway, so I stayed on at work and by the end of the next year, I popped the question. Well actually, I popped two questions. First thing I said was, I said; “Sarah, will you marry me?” And she said yes –'
Applause.
'That was the easy question –'
Laughs.
'Yeah, so after that one was out of the way, I asked her. I said; “What would you say, if I quit my job and wrote full-time?” And she said. Well you had to think about that one, didn't you?'
Laughs. I smile and nod. It was a big step.
'Anyway, she got back to me after about a week –'
Laughs.
'And she said. You said; “yes.”'
Applause.
'But, but. You also said; “On one condition.” And I asked; “What's the condition?” And you said, and I'll never forget this, you said; “If you do this Jeff. If you quit your job and write full-time, I'll support you. But you have to go all the way. You have to give it everything you have.” And I'll never forget that.'
He looks at me. His eyes are shining in the light.
'I normally. Well, before that, I'd always never really had any motivation. I never felt compelled to really do anything. I would always make big ambitious plans for my life, but I would always just give up. I'd say; “Oh, it's too hard,” or “It's not for me.” But, and this is how I knew that Sarah really was the one for me. I looked into her eyes.'
He looks into my eyes.
'I looked into her eyes, and I knew that if I gave up on this. If I gave up, I wouldn't just be giving up on myself anymore. I never really cared about giving up on myself. But, as I looked into her eyes I knew that if I gave up, I would be giving up on her. And from there, it was the easiest decision I'd ever made. I knew that no matter what. No matter what happened, I wouldn't give up on this woman.'
Applause. I feel a tear roll warm down my cheek.
'I love you Sarah.'
Applause, for us. 'I love you Jeff.'
'And, the rest is history. She's supported me through everything. Financially, emotionally, mentally. Everything –'
Someone shouts; 'Physically?' Laughs.
'Ha, yes. Yes, but we'll save that for another time. We've put off our wedding. She has sacrificed so much for me and, well –'
He chokes up. He holds up the book.
'Here it is. We did it.'
I step over to him. Applause. He can't speak. I wrap my arms around his waist. He kisses me. We did it. I brush hair from his eyes and whisper, just for him; 'We did it.' Applause.
'So, please. Thank you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for buying a copy of the book. I'll be hovering around somewhere. Preferably near the bar –'
Laughs.
'So come and have a chat. Thank you all. Enjoy your night.'
Applause.

The crowd begins to shuffle around, a hum of chatter washes over us from all directions. I can't make out what any of them are saying, but I don't care as Jeff slips his hand around my waist.
'Thank you,' he says it again. He says it just for me.
I place my hand on his chest, his heart races through his shirt. Speeches were never Jeff's strong suite. That's what he would say. I always love watching him stumble through the opening lines. The determination in his eyes to continue. He builds up a flow and I can see the comfort growing in him. I like watching him when he's comfortable.
'Well, you did it.' I say, patting his chest.
'We did it,' he repeats.
I look down and feel my face warm. I don't know how much of it was me. I let him do his own thing. Working long hours, nights, weekends. Coming home, he would have a stack of papers for me to read with an eager smile. I did my best.
His eyes tell me how much I mean to him. His gentle caress of my cheek as he leans in to kiss me. I feel his soft lips brush against mine. I need him too. I push against him. The kiss is short, sweet. It's what we both need.
'Where to now? I'm thinking bar.' He says it with raised eyebrows, humour in his tone. He makes me smile.
'After you.' He takes my hand and guides us through the crowd. He turns his head and nods at the little pats on the back that he receives on the way. His smile in profile leaves me warm. And happy.
'Two whites, thanks.' It has been on my mind all day. I forgot this would happen.
'Water,' I say into his ear.
He turns around, 'Not drinking?'
I look around. It is so crowded here, so crowded. Air is forced into my lungs and I should tell him. But not here. Looking down, I shake my head.
'But it's free,' he chuckles.
I take his hand with both of mine. I run my fingers over his smooth skin. He watches. Our fingers intertwine, connect. I place his hand on my stomach, and look up into his eyes. His face is blurred through tears. The smile on my face hurts. I am happy.
Strong fingers stroke my belly. He turns to the bartender, 'Water.' He turns back and I see his eyes are shiny again. He wears a smile that I have never seen.
'And a scotch,' he adds to the bartender.
I laugh, and he laughs.
'Really?' He leans in. His voice caught in his throat.
I nod, 'Yep.'
'When?'
'This morning. I was going to wait –'
'No, no. This is good.' He nods. 'Come here.' He pulls me close. I hear him sniff over my shoulder. 'This is good.'
We get our drinks and he takes me out onto the balcony. The view of the city at night is haunting. And beautiful. I stand against the barrier, pressing my stomach onto the glass. My vision is filled with only the city. I see nothing but darkness and twinkling lights. Life behind each light. Life behind this glass barrier.
His hand strokes my back. I feel his arms wrap around my waist and I pull back from the barrier. He holds onto my stomach. He is between us and the city.
'What now?' I say into the wind.
'We'll have to get married. That's for sure.' He chuckles, and he knows I don't care about that. I think about the future. Everything that will happen to me now, the ideas, the images wash over me. It hits me. He holds on tight as tears stream down my face.
'We have to go away,' I say.
'Where?' He is calm.
'Everywhere,' I choke out. 'We have to go everywhere. See everything.'
'You're right.'
I exhale. 'We have to do it now.' I cannot stop crying.
'We will. Hey –' He turns me around. 'We can. We can see everything.'
I wrap my arms around his shoulders and cry into his chest.
'Whatever you need now Sarah.' He holds me tight, until it begins to rain. I can hear the light droplets pattering onto his back. I am happy. My eyes shift to the sky. I view the full moon, over Jeff's shoulder. The pale amber light and the tiny droplets of rain wash me clean.
The rest of the evening is a blur. I watch Jeff sign copies of his book, at a small circular table. He sits on a barstool that has been dragged over for the occasion. He looks up at the people and smiles. There is a break in the crowd and Jeff smiles at me. He looks tired, and his hand is cramping. He smiles at me, and I smile back.
We sit in the taxi, and I watch the water slide gently down the outside of the window. Shop fronts and traffic lights blend together seamlessly in a blur of hazy light and fog. Jeff rests his hand on my thigh and I place my hand on top of his. We look out of our windows. My head is light and I rest it against the cool glass. Jeff's hand doesn't leave my thigh. Something bothers me. Something unnameable.
Jeff fumbles with the key to our apartment. He realigns it and slides it gently into the lock. I watch as his hands tremble with alcohol and excitement. I place my hand on his chest and feel him inhale sharply. I breathe deeply, heavily, and we enter. His coat is discarded as we glide across the living room. My shoes.
Light brushes of our lips as we pass into the bedroom. I float to the bed. Jeff is gone. White satin sheets wrap around me. Soft against my skin. Jeff is next to me. I feel his breathing, heavy and warm. His hands trace familiar patterns across my body. Warmth.
My eyes droop and I let Jeff kiss my neck. He devours me with gentle passion. I feel elegant. The air between us disappears and we are engulfed in satin.

I wake early. Jeff is still asleep as I make my way to the kitchen. I set up the coffee machine and pull out my laptop. Sitting naked on a stool I wait for the internet to load. Between pouring coffee and checking my email, I browse travel agent's websites.
Round-the-World trips. A cruise? Backpacking? We have the money for everything.
Jeff stirs and I call out to him, 'Morning.'
I hear a groan and the quick shuffling of feet. There is silence and then I hear it. Jeff is sick. He didn't have much to drink last night. But he is still sick.
'You alright in there?' I call as I head back to the bedroom. Modesty takes over and I throw on a dressing gown.
I hear a long low groan and something in my stomach doesn't feel quite right. 'I feel like shit,' he says after spitting into the toilet bowl.
I make my way into the bathroom and see him. He is naked and curled up on the floor, hugging the bowl. His face is grey.
'Jesus Jeff!' I rush to him and place my hand against his forehead. I don't know if it is hot or not.
'Must've been the wine,' Jeff chuckles weakly.
'Must be,' I answer. I don't feel right. 'Wait here.'
'I'm not going anywhere,' his smile is weak and it hurts me.
I head back to the kitchen and find a large bowl in one of the cupboards above the sink. When I return he is still lying on the floor. Some colour has returned to his face and his smile, while still weak, has life behind it.
'Take this,' I hand him the bowl. Leaning down, I wrap my arm around his waist and help him to stand. He is bent over, but he smiles. We head back to the bedroom and he slides awkwardly under the sheets.
'I thought you were supposed to get this,' he says, clutching the bowl.
'What?' I can't think.
'Morning sickness,' he answers.
I laugh and he manages a weak chuckle. 'How are you feeling?'
'Sick,' he says plainly. 'My head is killing me.' He sounds hungover, but he didn't drink that much. I swear he couldn't have been that drunk. I fetch him some Panadol and a glass of water. He thanks me and I sit on the edge of the bed, my hand resting on his leg, above the satin sheets. Soon enough, he falls asleep.
In the kitchen I sit on the stool, browsing travel websites and sipping coffee. I drink both cups, just because Jeff never likes anything to go to waste. I ride the buzz and check that Jeff is asleep before sliding a cigarette out of my bag. He knows that I smoke occasionally, but under the circumstances he wouldn't be too happy.
I shouldn't be too happy about it I realise as I sit on the balcony inhaling the tobacco. I place my hand on my stomach and promise it'll be the last one. My mind drifts and I close my eyes. I see gaudy advertising for “foreign adventure,” and “oriental excitement.” The advertising images are full of dollar signs and exclamation marks.
As I let the nicotine hit me the images soften. The words and bright flashy logos become subdued. The images behind them float forward and become the main focus. I see crystal beaches and sand so white. Impossibly white. Long gangly limbs of tropical trees. I can hear the waves. And the silence. I have always wanted to go.
I see us sitting on the back of a bus loaded with people. I can hear the gaggle of foreign accents and languages and we sit coated in sweat. I look out the window and see the dusty mountains and our spiralling road. I see white goats and ancient people leading them up the mountain.
The top of the mountain is snowy and the bus is now a van. We are wrapped in woollen coats and I watch the frosty breath coming through Jeff's smiling lips. I wear a knitted beanie with long braided tassels. The colours are vibrant and earthy.
I see a rug that looks like it is made of the same colours. It hangs in an open market, amongst so many rugs just like it. The vendor sits on a tiny wooden stool. The stool is older than him but they are both majestic and timeless. He sucks on a pipe and I clutch my stomach. It is big.
It is bigger when we step off the train. The cold chill is back and we view royalty and imperialism through tinted windows. Red and blue flags and red men standing guard. Twisting and turning, the wrought-iron moves freely under their careful gaze.
The wrought-iron is big and powerful. No, it is steel. Steel so high, so tall. We kiss, long and passionate. Giggling as we touch our tongues together, how very appropriate.
We break our kiss. Something is in the way, stopping us from being closer. We cross oceans and time. Something is holding us back.
I look down to see what has come between us. It is me. It is inside me.

I jerk my head up, feeling droplets of sweat fly off of my brow. My hands tremble and I notice the cigarette is almost out. A long stick of ash hangs loosely from the butt. I inhale deeply and put it out with my foot.
I hold it. I hold it long, needing it to calm my trembling hands. Then I finally let it out. Last one. I promise. Quickly, I move back to the computer. We have to go now. I have to go now.
Footsteps stir me and I realise I have been sitting at the laptop for over an hour.
'Morning,' I hear Jeff say from the bedroom door.
He looks incredibly tired. 'How are you feeling?'
'Better,' he says weakly. There is a croak in his throat. 'I smelt coffee.'
'I drank it. Didn't know when you'd be up.' I watch as he smiles easily. The movement of his mouth and the vibrant flicker in his eyes instantly warm me. He makes his way over to where I sit, perched on my stool.
'That looks good,' he says, pointing at the screen over my shoulder. I rub my temple on his arm. He points at an image of a tropical beach. 'I could use a holiday.'
I lean back and tilt my head up to look at him. 'When can we go?'
'How fast can you pack?' He answers sincerely, his eyes fixed on the beach. I turn my head around and kiss his bare stomach. He strokes my hair. 'Do it Sarah,' his voice is calm.
I turn back to the screen and start looking for flights. His hand brushes my hair as he walks around the counter and over to the sink. I smile at him, but he has a strange expression on his face. I feel my smile fade. He looks strangely at me.
I close my eyes as he lurches violently over and throws up in the sink. I can hear him coughing. I can't watch.




There will be more to this. As usual I wish the Tabs worked on Blogger. It's so much easier to read with the indents, but I don't know how to get them to work.