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.