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ACROSTIC

Writing poetry is something I have come back to recently, and I am learning styles and formats I have never heard of before (see Villanelle, for example). Acrostic was one such term that was last month’s challenge on www.deadlinesforwriters.com – it is self explanatory, I think from the below effort.

Anyone who thinks writing to order is a

Cinch, has never tried to create according to the

Rules

Of the game.

Should you wish to give it a

Try, be my guest

I welcome your best efforts but don’t

Cry when it doesn’t work out.

Opposites Attract

This short free verse was written in response to the prompt ‘Rhyme’ but contriving to find matchy matchy words just didn’t work for me so I interpreted it a little differently.

There is no rhyme or reason why this should work.

Our lives have been vastly different

But we arrived here at the same place,

Looking for the same thing, in life’s autumn season.

We have discovered a space where we can be ourselves

Inside but outside of each other’s worlds.

Work in Progress…the next installment

Later that afternoon, a signed contract tucked safely into her briefcase, the promise of drinks with Laaszlo, and to keep her safe from his advances, a commitment from Gio, Chrissie and Claudia to join them, Fran took out Duncan’s card. ‘Caelum’, the name of the company, was in an elegant embossed font at the top of the card. Duncan had explained to her that it was the name of the constellation of the Sculptor’s Tool, which he and Bernard had researched when they were studying together, along with big plans for their own architectural practice. She remembered he had made her laugh because they had first chosen the Constellation of the Straight Edge better suited to the tools of their trade, but that was called Norma, hardly a name which inspired images of architectural brilliance and one which in any case was coincidentally that of Duncan’s mother! Duncan Meyer Pr. Arch. MIA. GIFA. She called the mobile phone number on the card.

He picked up almost immediately, “Duncan Meyer,”

Fran’s mouth went dry, her heart was pounding. What on earth had happened to her? She who approached sex and relationships with reckless abandon was now tongue tied by a one night stand.

“Hello?” he enquired of her silence.

“Duncan, hi, it’s Fran. From last night.”

“Ah, yes, Fran from last night. I remember you,” he was teasing her. “How are you?”

“A little jaded but jubilant. The Hungarian signed. My business in Berlin is done.”

“Not so fast. I think we have some unfinished business, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would, but the point is, what would Bearnard say?”

“Don’t worry about Bernie,” Duncan came back, sounding very sure of himself. “In case his name hadn’t given him away, he’s from good Irish Catholic stock and he takes a dim view of sex outside marriage. He thinks I’m destined for eternal damnation, or at least purgatory.”

The explanation seemed a little dismissive of Bernard’s very vocal objection to her presence in Duncan’s room, and Fran was not convinced. She was beginning to have serious misgivings about the wisdom of having even made this call, let alone the proposition she planned to make. Oh, what the hell, she thought. You only live once.

“So if I can lose Laaszlo, can you ditch Dietrich and the priest later?”

“You bet. When? Where?”

“How about your hotel bar at eleven?”

“See you there. Enjoy your dinner, but save some space for dessert…”

Fran’s knees went weak at the thought of the sweet delights in store for her later.

Mercifully, Laaszlo managed to conduct himself with the utmost decorum during their celebratory dinner. Gio, Chrissie and Claudia had, as promised, joined them, and the evening was a great success. A testimony to Fran’s consummate professionalism, Gio told her. She considered herself to have got off her veiled promise to Laaszlo lightly and was thankful when, at quarter to eleven, the perfect gentleman, he expressed disappointment at her early departure but allowed her to excuse herself without insisting that she stay. Chrissie seemed to have the rest of the evening well under control with plenty of ideas of where they could continue their party.

Fran felt like a child playing truant from school as she virtually skipped out of the restaurant. As the cab pulled up in front of the monolithic Communist block building which was Duncan’s hotel she felt the same dry throat and pounding heart as when she had called him earlier that day. He had seemed keen to see her again, and had been very jocular about Bernard. Whatever that was all about, it was behind them. They had one more night to get to know each other better and Fran couldn’t wait.

Fran installed herself at the hotel bar, with a view through to the entrance and lifts, the better to see Duncan when he arrived. The ultra modern bar was expertly lit, decorated in the hotel’s signature contemporary style. The place was busy; Fran feigned a nonchalance she didn’t feel by casually pulling out her mobile phone and scrolling through her text messages. She avoided any eye contact with the largely male, business looking clientele, looking up only briefly to order a glass of wine. She waited. By eleven thirty there was still no sign of Duncan. She wondered what his game was. She knew his room number, but if, as she was beginning to suspect with a sinking heart, he was deliberately standing her up, it was unlikely he would be skulking where she could find him. No, he wouldn’t be in the hotel. She could call his mobile and see if he had genuinely been delayed, but then she thought, he had her number and could have let her know if that was the case. This was part of Bernard’s conspiracy to keep them apart, she was sure.

She left enough Euros on the bartop to cover her wine, stood up and walked out of the hotel alone at precisely eleven forty five.

Furious with Duncan for deceiving her, Fran signaled the doorman to hail her a cab for the retreat back to her own hotel. She went directly to the reception desk, checking for messages or calls, but the night staff shrugged, indicating her empty pigeonhole. In her room, she peeled off the outfit she had chosen to suit both an evening with her boss and newest client and later a lover. What a waste, she reflected. Duncan has no idea what he’s missing. She cleansed, toned and moisturized, brushed and flossed and, making sure her phone was within reach, flicked off the light.

Jealous Down

Jealousy by Edvard Munch (1985)

A recurrent theme, then, Jealousy. There’s ‘Your Colour is Green’ over in the poetry section and I recently found myself going even further with this…

They met in of those city pubs that start to fill as offices empty, but that thin out early as commuters drift home to the suburbs. Julia, vivacious and lively, was with colleagues from the recruitment agency at which she worked as a senior administrator, managing schedules, contracts and commissions with organised ease. Clients, candidates and staff all loved her. Dan was a trader in the city.  He was charming and witty, and they soon became an item, occasional dates becoming more regular. Their future together looked assured.

The irony is, it was Julia who was born under the sign of the Scorpion, one of whose character traits is well documented to be jealousy, but it was Dan’s green streak, running deep and wide that destroyed her.

Julia had seen it coming, if she was honest, but she was blinded by love – her own for him and by the belief that it was his passion for her that led to what at first were petulant outbursts. The first time, early on in their relationship, was endearing. They were travelling home together on the 17:43. They rarely managed to catch the same train, but today they had collided at the barrier. They had been thrilled to get their timing right, and to find seats together.

Then she glimpsed a regular commuter on the train over Dan’s shoulder, acknowledging him with a small nod and an almost imperceptible smile. Dan observed her facial expression, swung around to check in the direction of her look and saw the object of her silent greeting.

 ‘Do you know him?’ He fired at Julia as he turned back to her, stony faced.

‘No, of course not. I just see him most evenings on this train. We’re fellow travellers on the ride home, which is dreary when you’re not here, my love.’

Mollified, Dan nevertheless pushed his point home, ‘I could have sworn you flashed him one of your special looks. I thought those were only for me.’

‘They are,’ she said, squeezing his knee and dismissing the incident.

But the frequency and intensity of his outbursts became more pronounced. The provocations became more irrational, until even fictional characters, and once, an actor, became the object of his rage – or rather she was the object of his rage because she had dared to admire them, or comment on them in a favourable light.

‘So if Brad Pitt walked in here now, you’d leave me for him…is that what you’re saying?’ had been the nonsensical direction of one of his arguments.

‘Don’t we all have a hall pass for someone?!’ Julia tried to make light of it but in truth was dismayed at the absurdity of having to defend herself against the likelihood of Brad Pitt appearing in her apartment and whisking her off her feet.

‘You can have one for Charlize Theron, anytime she calls you for a date!’

Dan simply glared at her, withering her with his disapproval and the subject was closed. He moved on, leaving the incident to rankle and fester. Afterwards, there was always a belated apology, contrition and make up sex that was the pattern of these verbal engagements.

Julia began to question herself and to have an apology ready for whenever she transgressed his boundaries of acceptable actions or words. She knew the triggers and tried to avoid them, but somehow the occasions on which she slipped up were alarming. Dan’s reproaches grew more menacing although he never laid a finger on her.  Their interactions were reminiscent of those with her mother, whose words and facial expressions but no physical threat, had been more than enough to instil fear in Julia as a child.

Dan began to exert more influence over her. It was insidious, and she barely realised its impact. He accompanied her on shopping trips, whether for groceries or personal items. It went without saying that clothes couldn’t be even remotely revealing. Or her cosmetics too fragrant or colourful. Her accessories became subdued and she stopped wearing the flamboyant outfits for which she had once been known.

After the changes to her outward appearance, changes in her behaviour and confidence became more marked. She was more withdrawn and less talkative. She had started to mould herself according to Dan’s expectations of appropriate behaviour.

She retreated into herself and was afraid to speak up. Her work began to suffer as she was often distracted. Even her time keeping became regimented as Dan insisted they travel into and home from work on exactly the same train. Getting ready in the morning became a nightmare as she dared not be late for the 8.10. Getting out of the office each day at exactly the same time became a bone of contention with colleagues, as she sometimes left work unfinished, promising to complete it in the morning as the 17:43 became a daily ritual not to be deviated from.

Dan spent more and more time at her flat – popping home infrequently, for a change of clothes, to pick up mail or to check on his own apartment. His financial contribution to her expenses meant that the influence he exerted over her now extended, by virtue of his paying for it, to what they ate, or more important what she ate and how much she could consume. He monitored her every mouthful, claiming that he cared how she looked. She wondered what difference it made if she grew fat or thin, since he was the only person that saw her, as in between home and work, they had no social life.

She stopped seeing people or going out alone. Her friends had stopped calling and asking to meet, after two or three occasions on which Dan had insisted on joining her.  His need to control the evenings’ narratives had been evident, and Julia’s capacity to speak for herself so diminished that old acquaintances no longer sought out her company.

Their solicitous phone calls yielded only assertions that she was fine and happy and that hers and Dan’s relationship was a meeting of the minds and that she wanted him with her at all times.

In reality, she was completely and utterly stifled and unsure of how to extricate herself from a relationship dominated by his petty jealousies. She decided there was no easy way and that she simply and clinically had to break it off.

The day after the showdown – for there was no other way to describe Dan’s ranting and railing against her, how she was unworthy, was ugly and useless and that she would not find another man ever, she managed nevertheless to drag herself out of bed and prepare to go to work. She was drained from the protracted monologue he had spat at her, and from his vitriol but devastated at his final departure from her life. As much as she wanted the torture to end, she still loved him.

On the platform waiting for the 08:10 – the old habit was going to be hard to break – she saw him making his way, head down towards her. Then, she lost sight of him in the morning crowd, relief flooding through her that he was avoiding a confrontation She saw the train in the distance, curling its way around the final bend to the station. The next minute there was a hand in the small of her back, a push and the last thing she remembered was the rails rising up to meet her and the screech of the train’s wheels.  

Hoer se pienk and oranje handsak

In the depths of winter , the 10th May, to be precise, we were given the prompt ‘Pink’ for our Keep Writing Challenge, with 300 words to work with. Not being a pink girly girl at the best of times, I was bereft of imagination. Then I looked up from my blank computer screen and realised I had been looking at it all along. The picture by an old acquaintance, Renee Johannes called The Whore’s Pink & Orange Handbag hangs on the wall above my desk. Now the trees are full of pink blossoms and so I remembered this piece.

The Whore’s Pink & Orange Handbag hangs above my desk

‘The Whore’s Pink and Orange Handbag’ hangs above my writing desk. It is a serigraph bearing only as passing a resemblance to the outline of a handbag and its contents as you could imagine. I have another piece by the same artist called ‘The Artist’s Underpants’. I like her predilection for the slightly outré.

The Whore’s Handbag looks like the images on the monitors as your luggage passes through security checks at the airport and is screened for prohibited items. I have stupidly lost a bottle of expensive perfume, my favourite pair of nail scissors and a stoneware jar of Dijon mustard through sheer carelessness. The security personnel are uber vigilant sitting for hours on end, eyes glazed, watching our private lives paraded before them, but still manage to catch us out.

Between bursts of typing and when I am bereft of ideas, I glance up and gaze at the picture. What would a whore keep in her handbag? I am free to allow for flights of fancy, since the print tells me nothing. The answer is probably the same as any other woman.  A lipstick, the keys to the place where she takes her clients. Her phone. A purse. I am reluctant to ascribe other tools of her trade to the indeterminate shapes which are more burnt amber than pink or even orange.

I make up journeys the bag is going on, via that airport conveyer belt, to be tucked under the aircraft seat or safely stowed in the overhead locker. Or perhaps it’s a Hermès Kelly or Birkin bag, timeless styles famous for adorning the arms of actresses and models since the 1960s.

I look closer at the detail. I can discern the handle but for the rest there is no shape or form. Inspiration is in short supply.   

South Africa’s Shame

This week marks the 8th anniversary of the so called Marikana Massacre. The stand off between striking platinum miners, private security and the police culminated on 16th August, 2012 in the death of 34 miners. A long and drawn out Commission of Inquiry yielded very little in the way of actionable findings and the entire episode remains a scar in the memories of many.

I had just started work as a radio content producer on a leading drive time show, and it was my first time experiencing such a huge event in a busy newsroom. I learnt a lot that week.

This short piece of just 120 words was written in response to the prompt ‘Platinum’

Photo Credit: Times Live

The miners were uncertain. Tensions were escalating, the unions urging them to stay out, the shift bosses calling them back underground, their wives anxious simply to keep the peace. The employer’s menacing demands to put an end to their unprotected strike resounded in their ears.

They knew the power lay with them for now, but their sense of unease said this would not end well and their conviction began to waver.

The young man, wrapped in his trademark green blanket, emerged as one of their leaders. They took their cue from him and their belief in the cause was reignited. By the end of the next day, green would be streaked red, the blanket’s owner dead, along with 33 others.

Shutting up Shop

I walked through my Jozi suburb with a heavy heart last week, seeing the many shop fronts – mostly bars and restaurants – that have fallen victim to the stringent lockdown measures imposed on them by the South African government. Like all businesses, they were closed during the initial stages, but even as they were allowed to open again, they were not permitted to serve alcohol, and our evening curfew, recently extended from 21h00 to 22h00 means service has to be over over quickly and early. We hope that our favourites will return after all this madness is over, but too many are faced with insurmountable financial obstacles and may never open again. This piece of flash fiction responded to the prompt ‘Canopy’ in 200 words, but it speaks to the sadness of any businesses closing down.

Melville. Pic courtesy of New Frame.

She inserted the metal crank into the slot and began winding in the canopy. The fading late afternoon sun washed out the pinks and yellows, the bold black scrolling font a shadow of its former self. It used to stand out along the row of neighbourhood shops, now mostly shuttered and closed.

Carol’s Cakes and Confectionary, the sign read. She loved the uncontrived alliteration, after all, Carol was her given name. She regularly treated friends and family when she was perfecting her art, happily fulfilling any requests at no charge. When the shop premises became available, she took a leap of faith and opened her business, which was rewarded handsomely with the support of the local people.

In the past thirty or so years, she had hand crafted and decorated a cake for just about every family in the community. Her order book was like a social history of the town, every birth, christening, engagement and wedding recorded, names meticulously spelled out in her neat handwriting in the margin next to where the customers had penned their chosen greetings.

Now the high street is dead and she is going through her daily ritual of closing up for the final time.

WIP Pt 3

I’m still looking for a tile for this WIP, so all suggestions welcome – and of course you will get a mention in the Acknowledgements when I am a published author!!! The segmentation of these posts doesn’t necessarily represent chapter breaks, btw – that’s all part of the IP bit of WIP…

Fran awoke in a tangle of sheets. Duncan was fast asleep next to her, just as beautiful as she remembered him from last night. She nudged him gently. He opened one eye and his luscious mouth curled up at the corners.

“Mmm”

“Mmm, yourself,” Fran replied. “I gotta get going, places to go, people to see, you know how it is.”

“Yep, me too. Come back here.” He reached out for her, but the thought of arriving for her day’s meetings disheveled, in yesterday’s clothes, prevented her from giving in to their desire for more.

“No, really. I told you I’ve got appointments all day, and I need to get back to my hotel, shower and change.”

“When are you leaving town, did you say?”

“I didn’t, but since you ask, tomorrow afternoon. What are your plans for tonight?”

“The same as last night. That is to say, the first part. Dinner with my client, but as we know anything can happen after that… Where will you be?”

“If I can sign up my new account, I’ll have to spend some of the evening with them, cementing our new relationship.”

I know which new relationship I’d rather be cementing, thought Fran, her world swerving off track at the thought of another night with Duncan. She averted her gaze from his naked torso and busied herself gathering up her various items of clothing, shed so wantonly the night before.

“I’d love to see you again. Last night was really special”. Duncan was still in bed propped on one elbow watching her. 

“Call me. Here’s my card.” He pulled a thick, grainy business card with gold embossed lettering from his wallet on the bedside table.

“Let me know if we can hook up later. Otherwise…”

Duncan’s alternative proposal was interrupted by a knock on the door. Fran froze, naked, clutching her rumpled suit. Her shoes dangled from a finger.

“Dunc, are you awake?” A man’s voice.

“Er, yeah, sort of,” Duncan called back.

“Open up, let me in.”

“Hold on, man, just give me a minute.” Duncan, stalling for time, leaped out of bed and signaled frantically to Fran to get into the bathroom. Fran responded to the cloak and dagger turn which events had just taken as she quietly closed the bathroom door. Duncan was right behind her wrapped in the hotel robe. She heard him open the door to his visitor, whose identity he had mouthed to her. His business partner, Bernie.

In the bathroom, Fran began to dress. Her underwear was a complete muddle of last night’s haste, and it took some time to disentangle straps and lace. She pulled on her skirt, smoothing it down as best she could. Fully clothed, she fluffed up her hair and slipped on her shoes. She could hear a discussion between the two men going on outside but decided to make her exit anyway. They were two grown adults and she would not be kept hidden in the bathroom until it suited Duncan to let her out.

“Good morning,” she said, emerging in a state of relative respectability.

She took in the two horrified faces simultaneously. Duncan’s was full of guilty shame and Bernie’s was registering sheer incredulity.

“Duncan! What on earth…”

“Mind your own business,” warned Duncan

“That’s rich, bru. Or have you forgotten, I AM your business.”

“Business is business. This was pure pleasure.” Duncan flashed a look of something that looked like triumph at Fran. Fran was fascinated by the exchange so far, but nothing prepared her for Bernie’s response.

“Pleasure to which, my friend, you are not entitled. Forbidden fruits and all that.” There was not a shred of humour in Bernie’s tone as he faced off against Duncan.

Fran thought that he sounded more like a petulant, jealous lover than a business partner. Whatever the case, it was all beginning to sound too contentious. She began to steel herself for her imminent loss.

“Who is she, anyway?” Bernie demanded to know.

“She is the cat’s mother and she’s leaving, so keep your restraining order to yourself and let your partner have a life. Duncan?” Fran looked at Duncan, the unasked question in her voice. She was willing him to demonstrate some of the enthusiasm to see her again that he had shown a few moments ago. Nothing.

“Fine. See you around, then.” She started to push between the two men but was forced to double back into the room to scoop up her bag and coat. Damn. She lost some of the impact of her parting comment. Bernie took the gap.

“He already has a life.”

“Bernie, leave it alone,” Duncan’s tone was cautionary.

“Duncan, do you still want me to call you later, or not?” Fran asked, back at the door, looking defiantly at Bernie.

She saw Duncan almost check for permission with a look at his partner, and apparently his keeper. Briefly Fran considered her options. Dignity at all times, she figured. She dipped into her bag, pulled out one of her own cards and handed it to Duncan. She left him with a dazzling smile, a toss of her long hair and made her exit.

Another one bites the dust, she thought, with a heavy heart and fading smile as she made her way down the hotel corridor. And this one was a real shame. She had felt a special connection but she would simply let it go and put it down to experience, of which by now she had had plenty in her life. As she stepped into the lift, she heard the raised voices of the two men becoming muffled as the bedroom door closed. Fran was intrigued by what had just happened and not a little unsettled. She left the hotel wondering if she would ever see Duncan again, but vowing to herself that she would not allow him to humiliate her like that again.

WIP – Chapter 2

“Let’s start again, shall we?” Duncan took a sip from his glass of wine watching her intently over the rim of the glass.

“OK, so who are you, where do you come from and what are you doing here?” Fran asked him.

“My name is Duncan Meyer, I’m a South African architect visiting Berlin with my business partner who was indisposed tonight, so our client brought me here for supper. He has now apparently left me to my own devices and has gone in pursuit of the fairer sex. Under those circumstances, I thought, why not do the same?” He smiled alluringly at Fran. “What about you?” 

“Fran Copeland, English, Marketing Director for the Bijou Hotels & Resorts group, in Berlin for the international travel show.”

Chrissie, Gio and Claudia continued politely talking amongst themselves, leaving Fran and Duncan engrossed in each other. Fran gave the potted version of her hope, without elaborating on her methods of inducement, that she would in all probability finalise a big contract the following day.

Some time later, Gio announced that he and Chrissie were going back to the hotel, and looking around, Fran realised that Claudia had simply dissolved into the crowded bar. Duncan showed no signs of being ready to leave anytime soon, and so Fran decided she might as well savour his company a little longer. They talked about their favourite buildings – Fran felt a little out of her depth given Duncan’s technical knowledge and prolific repertoire of commercial and historical monuments the world over.

“The Taj Mahal,” she offered

“Yeah, OK, though a little obvious. I was looking for something a little… more… from you,” The ambiguity of the comment was not lost on Fran.

“Stonehenge, then”

“Archeological, not architectural. Another one”

“Well, some people hate it, but I love The Tate Modern – inside and out.”

“Good choice. Iconic. Modern. My turn. The Vernissage Hotel, Berlin”

“And, it’s special because?”

“Because, it’s utterly modern, observes all the rules though not the style of classical architecture, its interior is clean and uncluttered, it’s a gallery for original artwork, and I have a suite there. I can show you if you like…”

Fran thought back a few short hours to her response to a similar invitation from Laszlo. Now this was a nightcap she was interested in.

Around about midnight they eventually stepped out of the bar swaying against each other in the cold night air. Duncan hailed a cab and they clambered in. The driver nodded as Duncan gave the name of the hotel, then slid the glass panel to and pulled the vehicle into the stream of late night traffic.

The featureless exterior of the hotel, located in the former East Berlin, belied its contemporary interior. Waiting whilst Duncan stopped by the concierge’s desk, Fran took in the art deco style of the furniture done in rich, vibrant colours. There was an entire wall of modern art, and another of less abstract works, creating a gallery passage running through to a bar and dining room at the far end of the lobby.

Fran registered the ping of the lift as the doors opened. Duncan guided her in and they swooshed up to his suite. The room was large and pristine. When Duncan had said ‘clean and uncluttered’ she had assumed he was referring to the style of the hotel’s interior design, but she saw that also referred to how he kept his space. There were no clothes left out, his suitcase must have been stowed away in one of the cupboards – there was barely any evidence of his occupying the room. The plain, bold colours of the few pieces of modern furniture contrasted with the crisp white cotton of the duvet, which was turned down invitingly.

 Neither spoke as Duncan took a bottle of champagne from the well stocked mini bar and popped the cork. He poured expertly and handed Fran a glass. They stood for a moment sipping the dry French vintage until Duncan gently pushed her back into the bed’s feathery softness. He had proved an unexpectedly delightful companion for the evening and he was now proving to be an accomplished seducer.

As she succumbed to the pressure of Duncan’s lips, Fran began to think that she wasn’t doing very well for someone who had recently foresworn any romantic or sexual encounters to rather concentrate on her wider career opportunities. But Duncan’s kiss was firm, his lips soft and warm, and he made delicious noises of appreciation as he gently encouraged her to shed her clothes.