train of thought 12.04 [2 minutes]

so self absorbed you engulf yourself, soaking up your own ego like a soggy wet sponge.
because there is never enough time in the day... or enough days in the week
You are always needing one more minute or a few more seconds to come up with an excuse, a reason why you can't find a moment to listen to what I have to say or to ask how my day has been, unless you want something of course. Miraculously when you want something, your entire schedule frees up. Desire is a funny thing don't you think?

train of thought 11.04 [5 minutes]

the outlook is bleak. the morning as dismal as grey clouds on a wedding day. I stand before her. I cradle her in my arms; A fluffy white cloud of softness drizzled with chocolate markings. Her nose twitches, her paws paddle. We know she'll be gone soon but we dare not say so. We stand here unable to speak. unable to find the correct thing to say to make this moment hurt less than it does. we watch the rise and fall of her chest, her heartbeat fading. going. softly. drifting on until she is lifeless and the stillness leaves me feeling choked. Tsunami sized waves engulf me. consume me and my buckling legs won't support me now as I crumple to the floor in a heap. The sense of loss kicking me between the ribs with a force so strong I don't know how I have remained conscious. Buckets full of memories spill out onto the floor like a leaking pipe unable to contain the endless torrent flowing from nowhere. We tried so hard to save her but she was gone.

RIP Frankie baby. We'll miss you ;_;

train of thought 10.04 [5 minutes]

dancing on rooftops and curling up on blankets crocheted by little old ladies. there are tiny people wandering in the forest of my hair. i slip them food when I know they are hungry. when their little bellies rumble for something a little more sufficient than a tiny blueberry. Sour candy fizzing on my tongue.
we'll rip the sky in two, taking a piece for each of us. shredding the papers, tearing the fibres of our being. Tiny flakes will dissipate in between, floating down like feathers faling softly. down. down. down.
Bittersweet nectar from the bumblebees chores. buzz buzz buzz.
clean the cobwebs from the empty attic of my brain. dust the blood that pumps through my blistered tired veins.
crawling along slowly. slowly. slowly does it now.
little red hats and pitterpatter feet. tiny doorways and flower petals. delicate dainty deliberate.

train of thought 09.04 [5 minutes]

words strung together like bunting flags at summer teaparties, slotting together as puzzle pieces in the palm of my hand. grasping. sensing. feeling. they flow like rivers, intricately weaving through my mind and rolling off my tongue. velvetty soft blankets of grammar and sharp sticato of syllables. mumbling. rambling. punctuating.
eyes of rich delicious treacle flecked with shards of pale caramel. warm. inviting. ever expectant like children on christmas eve, sneaking fresh gingerbread hot from the oven. sticky fingers. presents under the tree.
we will weep tears of dust into the powdered world that lay beyond the horizon. shimmering twinkling stars that cannot sing. nestled in the quiet vast entity of space. picking the lint of time from her pockets while she sat below a large oak tree thumbing through a book, from her childhood. the musty smell of age seeping into the air. cracked spine.fluttering eyelashes, pages of a dream. of a lifetime. of a photograph. remember. don't forget him. the day with the cherry blossom, the wind in your hair, the camera in your palms, the laughing the dreaming. never forget.

T is for Tailor [WIP]

**UNFINISHED**

Mr Montague-Calthorpe arrived promptly at 10.30. He breezed through the door into Friday’s studio followed by a small sickly looking boy, clutching a notepad and wearing a head full of intensely bright coloured hair, who Friday assumed must be his assistant. Her client was tall, elegantly dressed and smelled strongly of expensive but intoxicating cologne. He thrusted his large hand into Friday’s dainty one and shook it firmly. 

“Dawson Montague-Calthorpe” he smiled kindly. 

Friday nodded “Good Morning Sir. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Cake?.”

“Oh don’t you worry about that, I’ve got Frapp here who I’m sure will run and fetch me something from your quaint little coffee shop downstairs. It’s positively darling.” Dawson was picking up random objects that were for sale, spinning an old tired globe, and feeling the weight of a shoe last before taking off his blazer and handing it to his assistant.

“I can take that for you.” Friday offered, reaching for the jacket

“Nono. Its fine” insisted Frapp. “Mr Montague-Calthorpe doesn’t like other people touching his possessions.”

Friday Blushed awkwardly, politely ushering her client into the work area where he couldn’t be distracted by her displays of unusual objects. 

“Vanilla Macciato” Dawson motioned to Frapp who scuttled off down the stairs to fetch the order. Ever since hiring his assistant, Dawson had become increasingly obsessed by the world of coffee 

C is for Coffee Shop

Friday hurried down the higgledy piggledy staircase of her studio. The white paint on the stairs was faded, chipped, incredibly scuffed. She called it ‘Shabby Chic’ but those who hadn’t grasped the concept of vintage interiors called it a mess. Friday’s studio was on the second floor of a rather peculiar building in the heart of downtown Manhattan. Its location- a stone throw away from the Artists block thus attracting a varied and interesting crowd of customers and artisans. The ground floor housed a rather odd, bohemian coffee shop. Old leather sofa’s were tucked neatly around vintage suitcase coffee tables and quirky art deco lamps and chandeliers dangled ominously above them. The floor was a deep mahogany, reclaimed of course and showing signs of the wear and tear it had received through its lifespan like wrinkles mapped across skin, every line and scratch holding the secrets to a memory or a thought that had once taken place there.
Along one side were bookcases that ran the length of the shop, adorned with tired leather bound books that had seen better days, an odd array of empty jam jars filled an assortment of trinkets;  buttons, wooden thread spools, wine bottle corks and old flakey brushes still coated in various shades dried out paint that had been used many years before. The counter was a crazy college of postcards that Friday and Tripp had gathered on their travels and received from the regular customers that visited, protected by a layer of glass.
 
Upstairs carried on a similar theme. It was a store itself but one that was quite exclusive; a bit of a rare gem and  those who knew of it’s existence shopped there religiously. Friday was a tailor by trade but both she and her partner, Tripp, had such a passion for objects with history, vintage interiors and fashion that they decided to convert half of her studio into a shop, selling all the quirky finds that they discovered. The other half was Friday’s work area, where she would sit and sew for hours upon end, creating one-off pieces that the elite women of Manhattan would lust after and fight for like dogs in heat. She had become somewhat of a celebrity with her clothes as well as a local fashion icon.

Friday’s pastel montage of hair was piled in a shaggy side bun with a few stray wisps falling loosely around her face. She had a tape measure around her neck and was clutching a box of pins which rattled as she descended into the café’s buzzy morning atmosphere.
She wrapped her tiny arms around Tripp’s waist as he stood at the coffee machine, producing enough cappuccinos and espresso’s to keep up with the rush of customers he had that morning.
“Come to give me a hand, love?” Tripp began, trying to carry four hot mugs of coffee in one hand whilst balancing a tray of cakes in the other.
“I can’t help for long” Friday’s face was apologetic as she took the tray from his wobbling arm. “I’ve got a fitting with a Mr Montague-Calthorpe at 10.30”
“Sounds fancy. Isn't he the guy that just inherited all that money? The guy must be a billionaire now!"
"I know." Friday grinned expectantly, quickly skimming over the receipt so she knew which table had ordered.
After she had handed out the cakes she stood on tip-toe to brush Tripp's cheek with her lips "All right sweetie, gotta run! Wish me Luck!"
"Luck!" Called Tripp after her as Friday vanished back up the rugged steps to await her client.

E is for Early Morning [WIP]

*UNFINISHED*

Karrigan's feet pounded hard against the pavement in time to the music thumping in his ears. It was just after dawn and the amber sky was fringed and stitched with a few stringy pink clouds drifting silently over the city. One thing that he adorded about New York was the fact that the morning was ancient long before the sun came up and already the streets were swarming with bodies and vehicles; the yellow cabs thundering along like bumblebees, a striking contrast against the dark grey buildings towering above them.  Suited and booted office workers and girls in high heels clutching take-out coffee cups moved in formations like schools of fish, so certain of where they were going it was like they had practiced weaving in and out of each other at least 50,000 times before. 

However, today Kari was in a world of his own, oblivious to the noise and traffic of the world around him. All he could focus on was the repetitive thud of his pulse and the sound of blood pumping through his body.  The monotonous horns and rumbling engines were lost in his even rhythm as he jogged down 49th street on his way back to his apartment.