Snapshots in Blue

The pendulum suck and crash of waves. Sun on my feet, face crunched into a squint. Waiting to, wanting to swim. Soporific; lullaby of sea. Horizon and sky, the perfect line between two blues; the perfect place to start a story.

 

On the brink, on the edge of the pool, waiting again for clouds to pass, to leap into the turquoise. Tension building. Tentative and then - the leap - and that second of knowing it's too late to back out. The cold is an agony, icy despite the sun. I pound strokes up and down, forcing warmth into my body, flying over a watery net of waves.

 

Wind sweeps over us. I paddle; you prefer to keep your trainers on. We walk on the dark sand, I slow step over rocks, you impatient, wait. Time slows; my life at this moment is about the sand and the sea reaching the hem of my dress, a cold slap of wet. Sparkle and shine, magical except for pointy edges and moving boulders. I snail along; you are a distant figure in blue.  

 

The balcony is a rectangle. It frames the sea and sky. A blue grey green white palette. The waves beat out the remainder of my time here, which is shrinking to very little. I cling to moments but I'm already goodbying.

Flash: The Comfort of Consistency

The ghost is outside. I can see an outline through the frosted glass of the front door. Close up, its face fractures but I can see its eyes are closed against my gaze. 

 

It has lived there as long as I can remember so at least six years. It is most noticeable at night; hovering, waiting to be let in. When I do open the door I feel the ghost pressing on my chest but it doesn’t dare enter; I don’t invite it. Probably it is friends with the skeleton that lives on the landing and is very clever at staying exactly, perfectly behind you. They both have the same soul-constricting smell around them.

Time passes, life unwinds. The ghost is always there. Sometimes I forget about it for thousands of days, and often I live far away but whenever I wonder into the hallway on my own I am confronted and now comforted by its otherness, its alwaysness, its me-ness.

A Maybe Shared Moment

I am in my habitual hurry, walking the dog before dance class. When we are passing the bus station, a man crashes to the ground. It is 8.45, too early to be drunk. He starts fitting. I fly to him; it is the first time I’ve used my first aid training, which has just expired. He is smacking his head into the concrete, already bleeding. I pull off my hoodie and stick it under his head. Someone calls an ambulance. A man who works there is talking to the 999 person, reporting what is happening. I crouch by the ill man. Others from the bus queue stand around, one of them holds my dog’s lead, another bends forward and pulls my vest top down, presumably over exposed skin. It is cold, she silently says; I hadn’t noticed, I silently reply.

He stares at me but I am not sure if he can see him. His irises are yellow. I keep talking to him, saying ‘It’s going to be okay, it’s all right mate; the ambulance is on its way.’ Then I see his hands which are beating into the ground, bloodied and already bruising. I demand a jumper from the bus queue and someone obediently obliges. While I am positioning this he grasps my wrist. I am scared, I know he could break it. His grip is a too tight bracelet. I continue to chatter, looking into his yellow eyes. I don’t know if he can hear me but I am intensely connected to this stranger.

Finally, after hours or moments or days we hear the siren. Finally, the fit begins to subside. He lets go of my hand, his eyes close and he starts to snore. The ambulance drivers walk over and I retrieve my dog and leave. A few minutes later I realise I’ve left my hoodie, a few minutes after that I burst into tears. 

 

I’m late for my class and I dance in a daze.