With summer rays burning hot on my skin, the metal of the bench seat was surprisingly cool. It was the first bench I came to and by far the best. Sat atop a hill I became a king of this world. The grass rolled steeply down, thick and richly green, until it finally flattened out to where kids were running around, kicking a ball back and forth, overlooked by tree tops, which soon turned into the roofs of people's homes with chimney stacks exhaling plummets of smoke as if they were on a lunch break. What sort of maniac would light a fire on a day like today, I could not tell, but the smoke rose and disappeared into the eternal blue sky. It was a crisp, flawless summer sky that went up and on and around until it eventually ended up behind you. You could easily ruin your neck trying to take the whole thing in.
Right here from my recreational crow's nest I could see everything there was to see and nothing at all. The wildlife that lived in the shadow of the trees was hidden from me. The ants and worms crawling between the blades of grass were hidden from me. The walls of houses concealed daytime bums, resting night shift workers, plumbers, housewives and audacious thieves. Even the greatest of stars, planets and entire solar systems were hidden beneath a thin veil of blue. The whole world was alive and it was in existence right before my eyes. I leant back on the bench and let the sun beat hard and hot against my face.
It felt like a good time to get lost and so I reached for my book. It was a collection of poems by some writer I had never heard of before but I guessed by his name he was probably of central European descent. I flicked through the pages and read a passage aloud to myself.
“His arms were ink-stained displays of 3a.m. madness,
cast out with the world moving beneath yr feet.
That time of night when your eyes are opened
to see more of everything that is already in front of you.
A moment immortalised in patterns on skin
In red, black & blue.”
I held the book lightly in my hands and started to wonder. I had picked this book up from some second hand store in town. It was the kind that had dust everywhere and the aroma of vanilla hanging in the air. I thought about all the people who had held this book before me. I studied it in my hands. The spine was creased but only half-way. It had never been finished. Was it so bad that nobody could stomach it to the end? Would I be the first to read its final pages? Perhaps I was only the second owner of the book. In my head I imagined the book being deposited at the store by a broken hearted widow, throwing out the last words her husband ever read. A great pain stuck in my chest as I gripped the book a little tighter. The possibilities were endless. I shifted uncomfortably on the bench knowing that hundreds had sat here before, each with their own thoughts and each with their own visions. I wondered about the other grand conversations and views absorbed before me from this very spot. My brain was becoming curious, so there was no chance of me being able to get any reading done. I took the old, dog-eared five dollar bill I used as a bookmark and slid it between the pages to guard my spot. My mind was ready to wander and the potential of that crumpled five dollar bill soon fascinated me. I leant back on the bench, closed my eyes and let my brain run. My feet needed the rest.
Friday, 7 June 2013
Sunday, 10 March 2013
A Tall Tale
Robert didn't have much in this world, but he did have work and he did have his guitar. It was more than a lot of other people had at the time, but it still wasn't enough for him. Robert wanted to be better and he wanted to be recognised - traits that were not uncommon in other men. Robert also had a tall tale to tell.
The moon hung full and bright in a clear, purple night sky. Robert walked alone, taking slow and deliberate steps to ensure he didn't upset the dirt on the road beneath his feet and fill the air and his lungs with dust. As he walked, he clung to the guitar that dangled at his side, wary of the flimsy nature of the strap he had made to carry it on his shoulder. He had crafted it himself out of spare string and it dug deep into his flesh. He was fully aware that the knots he managed to tie were not particularly tight, but they were the best knots he could muster with his unusually large hands.
The weight of his guitar and a hard day's work were beginning to take its toll on Robert and he desperately needed distraction from his blistered fingers and the ache that clung to his spine. Robert started to whistle. It was a slow, mournful tune, full of lament and regret. He soon forgot about the world around him and disappeared into the blues. He was blissfully unaware of the stranger approaching him from the junction up ahead.
"That's a mighty fine looking guitar you've got there, Mister."
Robert looked up at the tall stranger stood before him. His wide-brimmed hat not only cast his face into shadow but seemed to spread the darkness over his entire body.
"Mind if I take a little look at it? I'll be real gentle."
A bead of sweat formed at Robert's temple as he reluctantly handed his guitar over to this seemingly mystical character stood by the roadside. He couldn't bear the thought of losing his one earthly possession; the one item he relied so heavily upon to pass his spare time; the object he frequently lusted over and was so eager to master. Despite his apprehension, Robert freely - willingly - handed him his guitar and watched as the man steadily re-tuned the machine before strumming a few chords drenched in melancholy. The stranger meekly returned the guitar and without uttering a single word of thanks or farewell, turned on his heel and started walking down the road heading south. Robert gazed, almost dumbfounded, as the stranger disappeared into the depths of the night.
"A ghost?"
"Straight up."
"A ghost?"
"Yeah, Sonny. A ghost. Or something like that. Somethin' out of this world."
"A ghost? You're tellin' me you met a ghost, or somethin' outta this world, up at those crossroads and he just decided to show you how to play the guitar? That somehow he made you some kinda better player?"
"Sure thing. He was as real as you are sittin' in fronta me; as real as the cornbread and beans in my gut."
"That's a mighty tall tale, Robert, and I ain't too sure I believe it."
"You callin' me a liar, Sonny-Boy?"
"Naw, I'm callin' you a drunk. You bin suckin' down whiskey outta open bottles agin ain't ya? I tole you notta do that. You cain't ever be sure what's in 'em."
"I'm tellin' you I was sober, and I'm tellin' you I'm tellin' the truth, so help my soul. An' I've tole you before; never, ever knock a bottle outta mah hand, Boy."
It was sound advice given by old Sonny-Boy; advice that Robert would have been wise to adhere to. Several months later, Robert met his end drinking whiskey from an already open bottle that had been laced with strychnine. It had been passed to him by a stranger in a wide-brimmed hat. He was only twenty seven when he died. With his soul taken - lost - his blues still echo through the ages. They cry out from the heart of America. His songs can still be heard today, saving many a soul of the beaten, blue and downtrodden. The desperate ones, the unlucky ones, the misfortunate and the broken ones, they all still have a voice. They all still have the blues. Blues born from one man and his mighty tall tale.
The moon hung full and bright in a clear, purple night sky. Robert walked alone, taking slow and deliberate steps to ensure he didn't upset the dirt on the road beneath his feet and fill the air and his lungs with dust. As he walked, he clung to the guitar that dangled at his side, wary of the flimsy nature of the strap he had made to carry it on his shoulder. He had crafted it himself out of spare string and it dug deep into his flesh. He was fully aware that the knots he managed to tie were not particularly tight, but they were the best knots he could muster with his unusually large hands.
The weight of his guitar and a hard day's work were beginning to take its toll on Robert and he desperately needed distraction from his blistered fingers and the ache that clung to his spine. Robert started to whistle. It was a slow, mournful tune, full of lament and regret. He soon forgot about the world around him and disappeared into the blues. He was blissfully unaware of the stranger approaching him from the junction up ahead.
"That's a mighty fine looking guitar you've got there, Mister."
Robert looked up at the tall stranger stood before him. His wide-brimmed hat not only cast his face into shadow but seemed to spread the darkness over his entire body.
"Mind if I take a little look at it? I'll be real gentle."
A bead of sweat formed at Robert's temple as he reluctantly handed his guitar over to this seemingly mystical character stood by the roadside. He couldn't bear the thought of losing his one earthly possession; the one item he relied so heavily upon to pass his spare time; the object he frequently lusted over and was so eager to master. Despite his apprehension, Robert freely - willingly - handed him his guitar and watched as the man steadily re-tuned the machine before strumming a few chords drenched in melancholy. The stranger meekly returned the guitar and without uttering a single word of thanks or farewell, turned on his heel and started walking down the road heading south. Robert gazed, almost dumbfounded, as the stranger disappeared into the depths of the night.
"A ghost?"
"Straight up."
"A ghost?"
"Yeah, Sonny. A ghost. Or something like that. Somethin' out of this world."
"A ghost? You're tellin' me you met a ghost, or somethin' outta this world, up at those crossroads and he just decided to show you how to play the guitar? That somehow he made you some kinda better player?"
"Sure thing. He was as real as you are sittin' in fronta me; as real as the cornbread and beans in my gut."
"That's a mighty tall tale, Robert, and I ain't too sure I believe it."
"You callin' me a liar, Sonny-Boy?"
"Naw, I'm callin' you a drunk. You bin suckin' down whiskey outta open bottles agin ain't ya? I tole you notta do that. You cain't ever be sure what's in 'em."
"I'm tellin' you I was sober, and I'm tellin' you I'm tellin' the truth, so help my soul. An' I've tole you before; never, ever knock a bottle outta mah hand, Boy."
It was sound advice given by old Sonny-Boy; advice that Robert would have been wise to adhere to. Several months later, Robert met his end drinking whiskey from an already open bottle that had been laced with strychnine. It had been passed to him by a stranger in a wide-brimmed hat. He was only twenty seven when he died. With his soul taken - lost - his blues still echo through the ages. They cry out from the heart of America. His songs can still be heard today, saving many a soul of the beaten, blue and downtrodden. The desperate ones, the unlucky ones, the misfortunate and the broken ones, they all still have a voice. They all still have the blues. Blues born from one man and his mighty tall tale.
Wednesday, 27 February 2013
The Train Rumbled On
The kid's pillow turned hard and cold and began to vibrate, waking him up. Lifting his head, he watched as the world outside blurred and disappeared behind him. Shaking his head lightly, the kid looked around to absorb his surroundings and gathered from the backs of chairs and the heads peeking out from above them that he was on a train. He immediately remembered the trip he had been reluctantly taken on.
As he awoke he became aware of the itch. His scar was fresh and he was reluctant to scratch. They had told him not to. They had told him it would heal better if he just left it alone, so he ignored it as best a kid could. He yawned hard and started to pick at the hard crust in the corner of his eye that formed while he was sleeping. Examining it closely, he rolled it into a little ball between his forefinger and thumb and without any hesitation or thought, offered it up to his tongue to taste it before wiping it on the seat beneath his leg. His mind was elsewhere. He stared vacantly out of the window at the countryside rolling by, gently tracing imaginary shapes on the window with his finger. He was getting hungry and was wondering how long he'd be stuck in this metallic tube for. He didn't want to think about his hunger but he couldn't help it. The train was eating the tracks beneath it while it rumbled along and he was jealous. He wanted something of his own to eat. The walls of his stomach had started to close in and it almost felt as though they were touching. It didn't even have the strength to growl at him anymore. His stomach was a wide open cavern with a lonely pool of acid resting in the bottom. He really needed food, and would take whatever he could get, fearing he may just have to leave his seat to do so.
The girl was nowhere to be seen, but this didn't surprise him. She was often running off, unannounced, on her own little secretive missions and maybe it was time for him to go on one of his own. He didn't want to come on this little trip; it was all her idea, so why should he sit around hungry and alone, waiting for her to return to feed him? It wasn't fair.
He didn't know how long it would be before she would return. If only she left him with some money. If only she had left him with something so he could go to the food carriage himself. He imagined the adventure, wandering alone between the rows of strangers. He'd reach the end of the carriage and use the big button to make the doors part with a roar. It would be just like on the spaceships on TV. Imagining it all made him feel ten feet tall. Then his stomach finally rumbled and all he felt was hunger. He no longer even noticed the itch.
Searching around the carriage longingly for help he noticed something on the floor. Sat revealing itself from beneath her seat was the shy snake of leather that was attached to her handbag. He couldn't believe it; she'd actually left it behind. He prayed to himself that she'd left her purse inside, too. He let out a little squeal as he reached for the bag. Finally he'd be able to get something to eat and anything would do. He promised himself that no matter what he found in the handbag, he'd spend it on something healthy. He promised to not spend it on sweets. He'd buy a sandwich. He'd buy fruit. Anything good for him that would make them proud, just as long as he could eat something.
He pulled the bag up onto his lap, eagerly dragging the zip open and reached inside. As he rummaged around, he inspected each item individually. Inside her bag he fumbled with various boxes of tablets that he knew not to touch and hairclips and scrunchies of all colours. He pulled her hairbrush out and laid it on the empty seat by his side. Delving back in, he pushed some little square foil cases out of his way and from beneath a pile of dog-eared train tickets and receipts uncovered an old pack of chewing gum. He valiantly fought the temptation to slip one in his mouth though, for he knew that chomping on it would only make him feel hungrier. Amidst all the little alien treasures and pieces of junk he discovered, he found no purse. He didn't even find a handful of old pennies.
The train rumbled on.
As he awoke he became aware of the itch. His scar was fresh and he was reluctant to scratch. They had told him not to. They had told him it would heal better if he just left it alone, so he ignored it as best a kid could. He yawned hard and started to pick at the hard crust in the corner of his eye that formed while he was sleeping. Examining it closely, he rolled it into a little ball between his forefinger and thumb and without any hesitation or thought, offered it up to his tongue to taste it before wiping it on the seat beneath his leg. His mind was elsewhere. He stared vacantly out of the window at the countryside rolling by, gently tracing imaginary shapes on the window with his finger. He was getting hungry and was wondering how long he'd be stuck in this metallic tube for. He didn't want to think about his hunger but he couldn't help it. The train was eating the tracks beneath it while it rumbled along and he was jealous. He wanted something of his own to eat. The walls of his stomach had started to close in and it almost felt as though they were touching. It didn't even have the strength to growl at him anymore. His stomach was a wide open cavern with a lonely pool of acid resting in the bottom. He really needed food, and would take whatever he could get, fearing he may just have to leave his seat to do so.
The girl was nowhere to be seen, but this didn't surprise him. She was often running off, unannounced, on her own little secretive missions and maybe it was time for him to go on one of his own. He didn't want to come on this little trip; it was all her idea, so why should he sit around hungry and alone, waiting for her to return to feed him? It wasn't fair.
He didn't know how long it would be before she would return. If only she left him with some money. If only she had left him with something so he could go to the food carriage himself. He imagined the adventure, wandering alone between the rows of strangers. He'd reach the end of the carriage and use the big button to make the doors part with a roar. It would be just like on the spaceships on TV. Imagining it all made him feel ten feet tall. Then his stomach finally rumbled and all he felt was hunger. He no longer even noticed the itch.
Searching around the carriage longingly for help he noticed something on the floor. Sat revealing itself from beneath her seat was the shy snake of leather that was attached to her handbag. He couldn't believe it; she'd actually left it behind. He prayed to himself that she'd left her purse inside, too. He let out a little squeal as he reached for the bag. Finally he'd be able to get something to eat and anything would do. He promised himself that no matter what he found in the handbag, he'd spend it on something healthy. He promised to not spend it on sweets. He'd buy a sandwich. He'd buy fruit. Anything good for him that would make them proud, just as long as he could eat something.
He pulled the bag up onto his lap, eagerly dragging the zip open and reached inside. As he rummaged around, he inspected each item individually. Inside her bag he fumbled with various boxes of tablets that he knew not to touch and hairclips and scrunchies of all colours. He pulled her hairbrush out and laid it on the empty seat by his side. Delving back in, he pushed some little square foil cases out of his way and from beneath a pile of dog-eared train tickets and receipts uncovered an old pack of chewing gum. He valiantly fought the temptation to slip one in his mouth though, for he knew that chomping on it would only make him feel hungrier. Amidst all the little alien treasures and pieces of junk he discovered, he found no purse. He didn't even find a handful of old pennies.
The train rumbled on.
Monday, 4 February 2013
A Hat Without a Man
A cross I fashioned out of two sticks sits
in a pile of half melted snow.
A dirty hat grieves by its side, all alone
mourning the loss of the most patient man I will ever know.
Once worn with love - now empty - it rests on the floor.
A solitary tear hangs, frozen, from it's brim.
Now that is the saddest sight I have ever seen.
in a pile of half melted snow.
A dirty hat grieves by its side, all alone
mourning the loss of the most patient man I will ever know.
Once worn with love - now empty - it rests on the floor.
A solitary tear hangs, frozen, from it's brim.
Now that is the saddest sight I have ever seen.
Friday, 14 December 2012
Play the Game
My faith in love is blind.
Not that it matters,
she never shows her face around here anyway.
That's if I'd even recognise her.
I couldn't care.
I'm flat broke and blind drunk.
So I turn my attention elsewhere
and Lady Luck is looking good as ever.
I can always find the time
to settle down
to a game of cards.
I can always find the money to lose too.
I won the first few times - got hooked.
Lost a game - never looked back.
but I'm playing just the same,
I can't see where I'm going wrong.
Then again, I am blind drunk.
And now flat broke.
More so than before.
Before I know it,
it's the crack of dawn and
my ribs are cracked and
I'll need three stitches above my eye.
My car keys are gone,
they kept those for themselves when
they left me in the street.
What's worse, my car is too
worthless to repay my debt.
Sober minded with
my hung-over eyes sun-blinded, I
climb to my feet with one thing on my mind.
Eggs & bacon.
I'll need the strength to play the game again.
Not that it matters,
she never shows her face around here anyway.
That's if I'd even recognise her.
I couldn't care.
I'm flat broke and blind drunk.
So I turn my attention elsewhere
and Lady Luck is looking good as ever.
I can always find the time
to settle down
to a game of cards.
I can always find the money to lose too.
I won the first few times - got hooked.
Lost a game - never looked back.
but I'm playing just the same,
I can't see where I'm going wrong.
Then again, I am blind drunk.
And now flat broke.
More so than before.
Before I know it,
it's the crack of dawn and
my ribs are cracked and
I'll need three stitches above my eye.
My car keys are gone,
they kept those for themselves when
they left me in the street.
What's worse, my car is too
worthless to repay my debt.
Sober minded with
my hung-over eyes sun-blinded, I
climb to my feet with one thing on my mind.
Eggs & bacon.
I'll need the strength to play the game again.
Friday, 23 November 2012
Devil's Liquor
Peaches. I called her Peaches. She always wore tight jeans and Peaches was the only word that would come to my mind when I’d watch her. She never noticed me. She didn't know I even existed. They never do. They never can know. Secrecy is crucial. It's detrimental for what I wish to do. The day I'm discovered is the day that I am finished.
She'd go out drinking straight from work most nights and stand alone at the bar, waiting for company. She'd wait to see a man with a wedding ring and seduce him. She was a slut and she liked to screw married men in cheap hotel rooms. She felt particularly empowered if she could get them to cry afterwards. I'd overheard her telephone conversations telling her friends about it. She'd even giggle a little to herself as she confessed this. She claimed it made her feel bad but I knew better. It never stopped her. She was no girl looking for redemption; she was just a girl looking for a cheap thrill. She'd give up anything for it and it only turned me onto her. It made me want her more. She was perfect for what I needed.
Tonight was just like all the others. I had my eye on her and she was clueless. She was propped against the bar, slowly wriggling her hips as she tried to catch the eye of the barman. I watched her body snake before my eyes. Her unintentional flirtation was reckless. Pining for her, I approached the bar.
Wild cries of desperation and need flew across to the barmen who controlled the supplies of golden nirvana. Everybody wanted a taste and everyone wanted a taste of it now. There was little room at the bar to rest an elbow and the fever grew. Bartenders moved fluidly from customer to fridge, taking orders and money without flinching. Yet nobody on my side was ever satisfied. They hungered for a drink. Even when they got what they desired, they’d consume it and become eager for another. They were never satisfied. I adored their greed. I adored their lust. The object of my desire was no different. Peaches pulled her top down a little, pushed her elbows together and winked at the barkeep, just to down the shots of tequila placed before her without even considering paying for them - she knew she wouldn't be asked to.
I muscled my way to a stool at the bar - keeping her in sight - and ordered absinthe at every possible opportunity. The world around me soon blurred as I slipped into a delusional bliss waiting for the sounds of bells to send her home. I'd easily slip out behind her. Unnoticed.
On these rare nights when she went home alone she always caught the last tube. Below ground was my territory. The underground station was characteristically empty for this time of night. There were no souls present except for us. She may have seen me on the platform, but she hadn't recognised me. She had no idea who I truly was, or what I wanted. She certainly didn't know I was going to get the thing I desired.
As the train rumbled into the station I laid her in my sights. The hairs pricked up on the back of my neck as my stomach grew tight. I was so close. She was finally going to become mine and there was no way she could escape me. I shuffled silently behind her and placed my hand on her shoulder. Startled, she turned suddenly to face me and as our eyes met, I thrust my arm forwards, hard. Peaches fell limply to the tracks and was forever mine. She became another soul to add to the eternal collection.
She'd go out drinking straight from work most nights and stand alone at the bar, waiting for company. She'd wait to see a man with a wedding ring and seduce him. She was a slut and she liked to screw married men in cheap hotel rooms. She felt particularly empowered if she could get them to cry afterwards. I'd overheard her telephone conversations telling her friends about it. She'd even giggle a little to herself as she confessed this. She claimed it made her feel bad but I knew better. It never stopped her. She was no girl looking for redemption; she was just a girl looking for a cheap thrill. She'd give up anything for it and it only turned me onto her. It made me want her more. She was perfect for what I needed.
Tonight was just like all the others. I had my eye on her and she was clueless. She was propped against the bar, slowly wriggling her hips as she tried to catch the eye of the barman. I watched her body snake before my eyes. Her unintentional flirtation was reckless. Pining for her, I approached the bar.
Wild cries of desperation and need flew across to the barmen who controlled the supplies of golden nirvana. Everybody wanted a taste and everyone wanted a taste of it now. There was little room at the bar to rest an elbow and the fever grew. Bartenders moved fluidly from customer to fridge, taking orders and money without flinching. Yet nobody on my side was ever satisfied. They hungered for a drink. Even when they got what they desired, they’d consume it and become eager for another. They were never satisfied. I adored their greed. I adored their lust. The object of my desire was no different. Peaches pulled her top down a little, pushed her elbows together and winked at the barkeep, just to down the shots of tequila placed before her without even considering paying for them - she knew she wouldn't be asked to.
I muscled my way to a stool at the bar - keeping her in sight - and ordered absinthe at every possible opportunity. The world around me soon blurred as I slipped into a delusional bliss waiting for the sounds of bells to send her home. I'd easily slip out behind her. Unnoticed.
On these rare nights when she went home alone she always caught the last tube. Below ground was my territory. The underground station was characteristically empty for this time of night. There were no souls present except for us. She may have seen me on the platform, but she hadn't recognised me. She had no idea who I truly was, or what I wanted. She certainly didn't know I was going to get the thing I desired.
As the train rumbled into the station I laid her in my sights. The hairs pricked up on the back of my neck as my stomach grew tight. I was so close. She was finally going to become mine and there was no way she could escape me. I shuffled silently behind her and placed my hand on her shoulder. Startled, she turned suddenly to face me and as our eyes met, I thrust my arm forwards, hard. Peaches fell limply to the tracks and was forever mine. She became another soul to add to the eternal collection.
Friday, 12 October 2012
Another Walk of Shame
The air was thick and heavy and held her close like a blanket, comforting her as she staggered down the road. Her make-up was smeared on her face and her clothes were creased and crumpled from the night before, with her leather jacket hanging from her handbag by her side. She walked barefoot, but was too proud to consider this another walk of shame. She was still drunk.
Alison reached into her bag and pulled out a small business card with his details on it. If it wasn't for his advice she would never have gone to that meeting. If it wasn't for him she would never have met Shane. If it wasn't for him she would never have relapsed and she wouldn't be here right now. She screwed the card into a tight little ball and dropped it to the floor. She wanted to vomit but instead swallowed hard and staggered on. She didn't have far to go.
Her nostril was stuffed and empty and it caused her purse to weep. She couldn't stand it. She wondered if either would ever forgive her, if either could ever recover from what she put them through in the night. Her brain knew it. She could feel it, swollen with the grief, the guilt, the agony. It was swelling and trying to crush her skull. She couldn't escape the thought that the pain was thoroughly deserved.
She wanted to run away, to get out of her shitty little life. She wanted to move to Chicago. She didn't really know why Chicago, other than it was the only city she could name in Illinois and she only wanted to move there because she liked the way it sounded. She liked the way Illinois rolled off her tongue. It sounded beautiful to her. It left her with a pleasant tension in her chest and she felt foolish for thinking that way. Still, she had her mind set. One day she would get out and move to Chicago, Illinois. Lake Michigan beckoned. It would be her new home.
Turning the corner, she could see her destination across the damp street. The Bucket of Blood stood out from its surroundings, although its exterior didn't match its name. It looked like an ancient building, with its white, cracked paint and black beams it appeared to be from Tudor times. Smoke lazily rose from the chimney and disappeared into the grey sky of early autumn. It beckoned her. Formerly the Green Witch, it was once a family orientated bar, but when the owner died it became desolate, rotting in the skyline. Several years passed before a collection of rich students took it over and turned it into a lousy dive bar. It soon became a cult venue. Walls were lined with old tour posters, leopard print wallpaper and drunken graffiti. The floor was mostly wooden except for a small patch of thread bare maroon carpet by the jukebox and the ceilings were a tobacco-stained beige. The place reeked of mould but nobody cared. It was a venue for slobs and drunkards. The booze was cheap and nobody gave a shit about any rules.
The heavy wooden door creaked as Alison pushed it open and stepped inside. She was welcomed by the sound of Bo Diddley's "Who Do You Love" and the usual dank aroma of the place. She suddenly felt violently nauseous. Behind the bar, her favourite tender, Joel, was standing, twisting a dirty rag into an empty tumbler. They'd fooled around a few times but it had never amounted to anything serious. She knew she could easily get a free drink out of the guy with just a wink or a smile, but she couldn't face him now. Fortunately he hadn't noticed her, so she walked straight past the bar, trying to ignore him, and headed for the back door hoping for some fresh air and a clear head.
Outside, Alison saw the exact site she hoped to see - her closest friend, Lucy, in her finest form. She was slumped over the only table, unconscious with her face cradled in her arms. She was a beautiful, slender, brunette and Alison loved her dearly. She didn't dare wake her. Instead she picked up the half consumed bottle of white wine from by her side and took a long heavy drink from it. Sighing from refreshment and choking back the vomit she raised the bottle back to her lips and drained the rest of it. It warmed her gut and she started to feel human again. She started to feel a lot better. She started to wish she hadn't thrown that card away.
Alison reached into her bag and pulled out a small business card with his details on it. If it wasn't for his advice she would never have gone to that meeting. If it wasn't for him she would never have met Shane. If it wasn't for him she would never have relapsed and she wouldn't be here right now. She screwed the card into a tight little ball and dropped it to the floor. She wanted to vomit but instead swallowed hard and staggered on. She didn't have far to go.
Her nostril was stuffed and empty and it caused her purse to weep. She couldn't stand it. She wondered if either would ever forgive her, if either could ever recover from what she put them through in the night. Her brain knew it. She could feel it, swollen with the grief, the guilt, the agony. It was swelling and trying to crush her skull. She couldn't escape the thought that the pain was thoroughly deserved.
She wanted to run away, to get out of her shitty little life. She wanted to move to Chicago. She didn't really know why Chicago, other than it was the only city she could name in Illinois and she only wanted to move there because she liked the way it sounded. She liked the way Illinois rolled off her tongue. It sounded beautiful to her. It left her with a pleasant tension in her chest and she felt foolish for thinking that way. Still, she had her mind set. One day she would get out and move to Chicago, Illinois. Lake Michigan beckoned. It would be her new home.
Turning the corner, she could see her destination across the damp street. The Bucket of Blood stood out from its surroundings, although its exterior didn't match its name. It looked like an ancient building, with its white, cracked paint and black beams it appeared to be from Tudor times. Smoke lazily rose from the chimney and disappeared into the grey sky of early autumn. It beckoned her. Formerly the Green Witch, it was once a family orientated bar, but when the owner died it became desolate, rotting in the skyline. Several years passed before a collection of rich students took it over and turned it into a lousy dive bar. It soon became a cult venue. Walls were lined with old tour posters, leopard print wallpaper and drunken graffiti. The floor was mostly wooden except for a small patch of thread bare maroon carpet by the jukebox and the ceilings were a tobacco-stained beige. The place reeked of mould but nobody cared. It was a venue for slobs and drunkards. The booze was cheap and nobody gave a shit about any rules.
The heavy wooden door creaked as Alison pushed it open and stepped inside. She was welcomed by the sound of Bo Diddley's "Who Do You Love" and the usual dank aroma of the place. She suddenly felt violently nauseous. Behind the bar, her favourite tender, Joel, was standing, twisting a dirty rag into an empty tumbler. They'd fooled around a few times but it had never amounted to anything serious. She knew she could easily get a free drink out of the guy with just a wink or a smile, but she couldn't face him now. Fortunately he hadn't noticed her, so she walked straight past the bar, trying to ignore him, and headed for the back door hoping for some fresh air and a clear head.
Outside, Alison saw the exact site she hoped to see - her closest friend, Lucy, in her finest form. She was slumped over the only table, unconscious with her face cradled in her arms. She was a beautiful, slender, brunette and Alison loved her dearly. She didn't dare wake her. Instead she picked up the half consumed bottle of white wine from by her side and took a long heavy drink from it. Sighing from refreshment and choking back the vomit she raised the bottle back to her lips and drained the rest of it. It warmed her gut and she started to feel human again. She started to feel a lot better. She started to wish she hadn't thrown that card away.
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