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. 

A is for Assistant [WIP]

**UNFINISHED**

The air was sullen and oppressive with menacing dark clouds haunting the skies of Manhattan; deep, low rumbles emanating from their full grey bellies. The first lonely tear of the sky fell to the pavement, then another and another until the sidewalk was darkened with the heavy sadness falling from above.

Dawson stood at the corner of Madison and 6th as the heavens opened. Failing to remember to charge his cellphone, he was now stranded with no way of contacting his driver to collect him. He hadn't the foresight to bring an umbrella with him either and now, in a matter of seconds, he was soaked through to the bone by the impenetrable sheets of water blurring his vision. 

A startling crack of lightning tore across the sky, Illuminating the city for a few short seconds.  People dashed and darted everywhere to escape the weather and Dawson decided that this was not the best moment to attempt to hail a cab or ride the subway for the first time in his life and instead trudged to the nearest shelter; A Starbucks. 

The warmth enveloped his trembling frame as the whipping air was left behind on the street. For Dawson, today was most certainly a day of firsts for this was also his first time in a Starbucks too. He made his way to the back of the queue and drank in his surroundings. 

Barista's stood behind the counter shouting orders and clattering crockery together, while low conversations were muttered at the tables and couches where customers sat over their steaming hot drinks. There was a repetitive click, click, click from the students with their heads buried in their laptops and some bluesy, slightly jazzy tracks were playing in the background. Earthy, fresh coffee had filled his nostrils and the smell of the fresh pastries and melted cheese amalgamated making his stomach groan with hunger. Dawson, although used to the finer things in life, was quite charmed by this coffee shop. 

He glanced down at his Armani trench coat, now splattered with mud and dripping dark, dank liquid into a pool of muddy rain water at his feet. His hair was clinging to his forehead so he ran his fingers through it, spraying droplets of water into the air like a wet dog.

When it was finally his turn to order, Dawson just stared blankly up at the boards displaying the types of coffee available, completely overwhelmed by the different choices that surely couldn’t be in English. 

"Good Afternoon Sir, Welcome to Starbucks, What can I get you?" Smiled the boy behind the counter 

Dawson shot him an apologetic look when he realized he had no idea what he wanted and had only come in to escape the harsh weather. Noticing Dawson's startling pale blue eyes, the boy realized just who he was serving. 

"Oh, hey… aren't you that guy who just inherited Calthorpe Enterprises?"

Dawson nodded, still unsure of what to say when he was asked this question. "I'm guessing you forgot your umbrella today?" Whispers were working their way down the queue behind Dawson and everyone was now staring at him, recognizing the handsome face that had graced their TV Screens and the newspapers just the week before. 

Noticing Dawson's discomfort the boy behind the counter continued. "Assistant call in sick?"

"Oh err, no I don't have an assistant" Dawson replied, still staring up at the boards lined with coffee and prices. 

"Really?" The boy looked shocked. "a busy guy like you? No assistant?"

Dawson laughed. "Well after today I think I need one to remind me to take an umbrella out when it’s due to rain and one that can choose a coffee for me. I have no idea what to have..." Dawson glanced down at the name tag on the boy's black polo shirt "So.....Frapp? What do you recommend?"

Judging from the puzzled look on Dawson's face, Frapp felt he should offer his services. "The name is Penn really, the guys around here call me Frapp cause I make a mean custom Frappuccino"

"I suppose I can try your specialty then" Dawson proclaimed proudly. 

"You sure? That /is/ a cold drink – It’s not really the weather for it. I still make a mean coffee – A lot of the ones offered as Frappuccino are offered as hot drinks"

Dawson Smiled again. "How about you surprise me" he pauses and snatches a package of shortbread out of the display in front of him “and that”

F is for First Impressions [WIP]

That was the first time I saw her.

It was my first morning in New York;  sleepiness burrowed in the corners of my eyes and a there was messiness to my hair that only a restless sleep could conjure. I sluggishly made my way across town to saunter up and down the bookshelves of the New York Public Library and there she was. As appealing as a buttercup; Beautiful but not strikingly so. She was not a glamorous model from the cover of a magazine but she was no pretty young thing in too much eyeliner either. She had the kind of face that would remain lovely forever, even when time had run its course and left its marks there. Something curiously feline lay about the rounded cheeks and wide almond eyes, the outline of her cheekbones dusted in a gentle flush from the early winter cold that had been nipping softly at her face. She evoked warm sunshine and miso soup and lazy sunday mornings spent reading books in bed, sunlight streaming through the window; her peaches and cream complexion pale and delicate like newly formed porcelain and perfumed like blooming peonies. I wanted to reach out and touch her; dance my fingertips across the nape of her neck and watch the hairs rise in anticipation. She stood there, in a moss green raincoat scattered with pink polkadots and her hair, piled at the back of her head in a nebula of waves, tumbling stray curls that framed her gentle face in whimsical pastel shades reminiscent of Springtime and hand-painted Easter eggs. 

I felt compelled to go to her, to fold her up like origami and smuggle her away in my pocket; to tuck her into the creases of my elbows and cradle her in the junctions of my shoulders; To wrap myself around her like a second skin and protect her from the harsh realities of this world.

She was the most exquisite creature I had seen in a long time.

She's hot. I'd tap that.

That guy has yellow and turquoise hair. Yellow and blue make me think of the sunshine at the beach. I like the beach, especially in summer and I also like orange popsicles. The kind of popsicles that have tiny bits of real orange in and fizzle on your tongue a little with the tangy citrus flavour that feels like there is a party going on inside my mouth. Perhaps he would like orange popsicles too. Maybe I should ask him. But what if he DOESN'T like orange popsicles? That would be a tricky situation. If his hair was orange and blue then I would know he does indeed like orange popsicles but then he wouldn't remind me of summertime at the beach and there would be no need for orange popsicles anyway.
I wonder what his name is. Perhaps its Timothy or Paul or maybe even Greg. I knew a guy named Greg once. He owned a pet shop down on 3rd and I bought a hamster from there when I was about eight. Though maybe I was nine. I called the hamster Tobias and he used to sit in the hood of my sweater and sleep inside my sleeves until dinnertime. I wonder if the guy with the yellow and blue hair likes hamsters. Maybe his name is Hamster. I suppose there is only one way to find out.

I'm laying here thinking of him again. In my dreams I hear his breaths; breaths like little waves lapping at the shore; peaceful beside me. I try and blink back the sleep, my eyes lash wide against the pillow but all I can think about is the outline of his jaw, his eyes; green like the curling fronds of a baby fern. My body is tired and simply longs to drift off to him again; to dive back into rapturous sleep where my imagination could take me where I want and I won't have the consciousness to stop my racing, blissful thoughts. I shake my head in protest, trying to rid him from my mind. I shouldn't feel this way. I have no idea if he even feels the same way towards me. I've gotten to that point where I don't understand why I feel the way I do but all I can do is feel it. It's the worst feeling knowing that I can't do anything but wait and ride it out with a chance of there being no destination at the end of it. Just a lonely one-way ticket back to where I started. The truth is - rejection terrifies me. Not just in the direction of my career but in this moment. With this one person.

I try to play tricks on my mind and busy myself by hopping out of bed and getting dressed, cleaning my teeth and brushing my hair. There is a bounce in my step, a keen spring that wasn't there before  like I finally have something to wake up for, to breathe for. But no. I can't think that way. I'm just getting ahead of myself. Slow Down Joeby. Slow down.