Confessions of a Musical Junkie

I have a powerful, emotional and visceral connection to musical theatre.  When I go to see a musical, any musical, I start to cry.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a show I know and love or one I can barely sing along too; whether it’s a comedy or a tragedy.  You can guarantee that, before the orchestra has a chance to find their groove, I will be in floods.  (There is only one exception so far to this rule: Miss Saigon.  I really hate that show.  And Grease but I would never willingly go to a theatre to see Grease.  Unless one of my former students was starring in it and offered me complimentary tickets and it would have to be a former student I really, really, really liked.)

into-woods-movie-release-dateIt doesn’t even have to be a live stage production.  Glee held me in its saccharine grip for three seasons.  After one episode I had to phone a friend and sob about it to him.  I went through an entire box of tissues during Les Miserables.  Even the recent televised Tribute to Tim Rice had me misty eyed.  Is it any wonder that I spent most of the two and whatever hour performance of Into the Woods quietly crying into my daughter’s hair?  (She sat on my lap throughout Act Two and, for the record, hair is not terribly absorbent. #shouldabroughttissues)

Why do I get so verklempt by musical theatre?  At first I thought it was just musicals I loved at an early age: Les Miz, Into the Woods, Chess, Sunday in the Park with George, Evita, Cats (I was nine, ok?), Pirates of Penzance, Jesus Christ Superstar…  I’m going to stop listing now because this is taking too long.  But why did I sniffle through Wicked, a show I like very much but am not particularly attached to emotionally?   Why did a scene from Lion King performed at the Tony Awards reduce me to a gibbering puddle?  I hate that stupid film!

My conclusion is that I am Pavlovianally (there’s an adverb for you) hard-wired to respond with deep emotion to musical theatre because so many of my happiest, most fulfilling moments from the age of 8-18 can be linked to musicals: shows I’ve been in, shows I’ve seen, soundtracks I’ve listened to so often they are in my blood.  When the lights going down and the orchestra tunes up I’m transported through a worm hole where sequins, recitatives and cycloramas mix with willow trees I’ve climbed, friends and family I’ve loved, opening night jitters, closing night tears, a lighting gel sample fan I carried around for years that taught me everything I know about colour, practising my tap dancing on a discarded plank of driftwood in my living room when I was ten, my dad in a pink dress playing the role of Hysterium in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Forum when I was seventeen.

Most of all, musicals remind me of my small town high school which put on a musical every spring.  Some parts of my adolescence sucked, but once a year there was a musical and all my friends were in it.  Every night we rehearsed, every weekend we painted sets, hunted for props or made costumes and every moment I remember thinking there was nowhere else I would rather be.  On my eighteenth birthday, after our last dress rehearsal of the last show I would do on my high school stage, the entire cast sang “Happy Birthday” to me and someone brought cake and ice cream and there was nowhere else I would rather have been.  Spring is still my favourite time of year and I still put on high school shows—only now I’m the teacher/director.  Magic, memory and music combine into a heady emotional cocktail, rendering me powerless to resist the siren songs.

I should pause at this point for an interval/intermission because this blog was supposed to be a review of Into the Woods and it’s turning out to be Confessions of a Musical Junkie.

IntoWoodsTitlePage1At the age of sixteen, right in the middle of my most musically emotional period, I discovered Into the Woods and immediately claimed it as my own.  Sondheim wrote it for me.  I am as convinced of this now as I was at sixteen.  What could be more Kate than a musical fairytale?  Nothing.

For me, this show is a coming of age story in every way.  The characters and story, lyrics and themes taught me a lot about the kind of person I wanted to be but also warned me about the pitfalls of growing up and making choices.  “Nice is different than good,” Little Red Ridinghood taught me.  “Isn’t it nice to know a lot…and a little bit not,” she also sings, which resonated with me as a self-confessed Miss Know It All.  Jack warned me about giants in the sky, but also reassured me that when I came back to my small world, it would seem different but dearer.  This is what every kid needs to know when they leave home to go to university.  Cinderella and The Baker’s Wife taught me about men.  Handsome princes might be good for “whatever” but it was likely that they would be “charming not sincere” and I should wait for someone in-between.  I learned that for sure.

The Baker taught me the most because Into the Woods really is his story.  In the first act he tries so hard to complete a quest without losing his moral compass—unlike his wife who is willing to do anything to get what she wants.  But when he loses her in the second act, he loses his way in the woods.  Scared that he will become “like father, like son”, he runs from the consequences of his choices.  Everyone runs from the consequences of their desire to achieve their dreams because their choices leave a big, bloody mess on the stage.  This musical is all about choices and the consequences of those choices and the realisation that while you are chasing your dreams, others are chasing theirs or just trying to keep their heads down and get on with their lives.  The final choices that these characters face are not necessarily good ones, but you can see them trying hard and that is the point.  You will make mistakes but fix them as best you can then tell your story and hopefully the next generation will learn a truth from it.  Into the Woods is a big chapter of my Bible which, I guess makes Sondheim a major prophet of some kind.

INTO THE WOODSAs with Les Miz and Sweeney Todd, I was scared (“well, excited and scared”) to see the film.  I heard they had changed it, Disneyied it, sanitised it.  They didn’t really.  There were a few changes but mostly it was the musical I knew and loved with a cast cooked up in fairyland.  Chris Pine, Emily Blunt and Anna Kendrick are just perfect.  Little Lilla Crawford (I was scared at first that she had lip synced it but I looked her up and she’s totally a Broadway baby) is a gem.  I liked Meryl Streep, but as a fan of the show I wish they had cast Bernadette Peters so there could be one connection to the original play.  James Cordon continues to challenge my expectations and my biggest regret of the film is that he didn’t get to do “No More”.  Hoping for a director’s cut DVD.

As with Les Miz and Sweeney Todd and even Noises Off, I did find myself thinking throughout the film (when I wasn’t crying): great cast, great costumes and staging but can I please just see all these people do this on stage?  I’m a boards and greasepaint gal over screens and celluloid I guess.  I crave the live.

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Treading Darkest Waters: on death, depression and other happy things

dark waterI met her in my fourth year of teaching.  A gifted young actress, musician songwriter, artist.  Able to communicate emotion through her talents with the kind of sincerity, depth and honesty that you cannot learn.

She was loved.  Oh dear me was she loved.  By friends and family.  Loved like crazy.

Later, I had to explain to some people who loved her—to my own students—that their beloved friend was in hospital because she had tried to take her own life.

She has been on my mind and in my heart recently.  Like Robin Williams, she was an artist.  Like Robin Williams, she suffered from mental illness (bipolar).  Few people knew it.  Fewer people saw it.  I know she tried more than once to take her own life. I am guessing Robin William’s final suicide attempt was not his first either.

I’ve been thinking too about my former teacher David Foster Wallace, who killed himself in almost the same way as Williams.  Struggles with depression, struggles with substances but ultimately the struggle was in themselves.  And their struggles were widely misunderstood.

I remember breaking the news of my student’s hospitalisation to a classroom of young people who knew her well.  After the shock wore off, they had questions.  The answers were difficult.

‘What happened to her?’ one asked.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well something really awful must have happened to push her to this.’

‘Nothing awful happened to her really.’

‘Why’d she do it then?’

I had to think about that.

‘She was sick.’

‘When did she get sick?’

‘Always.  Maybe.  A long time.’

My answer was pretty lame and I was losing my audience.  But how do you explain to someone who’s never been at the bottom of a well?  If you’ve never felt yourself drowning in darkness how can you empathise with someone who constantly treads black water?

‘It’s like having a broken leg,’ I said.  ‘If someone breaks their leg, you notice.  They limp.  Maybe they have crutches.  Or someone has a missing arm or finger.  You can see it.  And you know that person will have to do things differently.  Make allowances for their missing limb or digit.’

‘She had a missing arm, only no one could see it.  Every day she had to make allowances for that and worked three times harder than anyone else to go about her daily business.  Just not in a way anyone could see.’

And that’s the thing about mental illness.  It’s hard to see.  Because we can’t see it we struggle to understand.

Reading various on-line posts and messages about Robin Williams’ death, many are sympathetic, heartbroken.  Some use it as an opportunity to draw attention to the issue of mental illness and the quiet tragedy of depression which so many suffer from every day.  And there is confusion.  He had everything.  He was so loved.  He was so talented.  What a waste.  Some expressed anger that he would selfishly take himself out of the world that needed him.

But if you have depression, you cannot see any of that.  All you can see is the darkness around you and no way out.  Like the bottom of a well.  Your head can’t escape from the well.  Your body certainly won’t co-operate because all it wants to lie back, float, let the dark water lift your burden.

People with depression live like this–always treading darkest water.  Medication can lessen the symptoms.  Therapy can alleviate the helpless loneliness.  And sometimes it gets better.  Good days.  Better months.  But it’s not something you can snap out of.  It’s not simply a matter of shaking off the blues.  Depression is illness.  You treat it.  You cope with it.  But you can’t shake it any more than you can tell your sinuses to stop running because a cold is not convenient just now.  You can’t will a severed limb to be whole again.  You can only learn strategies for coping without it.

I have experienced depression in small doses on two occasions in my life: after the births of each of my children.  I struggled to bond with my daughters.  I felt useless.  There were many times I convinced myself both children would be better off if I gave them to someone else to raise.  I even had a plan for this that seemed totally reasonable at the time.  Breast feeding was particularly awful.  This reached a high point—or rather a low point—when I took a pair of scissors to my favourite t-shirt and shredded it just over my breasts.  At least it was my shirt and not my skin.

If I spoke to anyone about my feelings, people would almost always say the same thing: “your babies are beautiful, healthy and they are going to be fine.”  My babies were never a question.  I always knew they were fine and would be fine.  I was the mess.  I felt like I was slowly dying.

I vividly remember when I finally felt like a mother.  Or felt the way I thought a mother should feel.  My first born daughter was seventeen months old and we were on holiday together in New York City.  That was the first time I had fun with her.  It was just as bad with the second one, though I recovered faster.  I still have moments, rare though they are, when I make plans.  Plans that seem totally reasonable for about an hour.  I can’t image how it would feel to live in that dark place full time.

Some of my favourite authors have written about depression.  Matt Haig is one of the most honest.  Stephen Fry the most vulnerable.  David Foster Wallace the most eloquent in his own way.  Robin Williams spoke openly about his struggles.

She wrote about it too.  And I have written about her.  She was my primary inspiration for the character of Rowan in A Circle of Lost Sisters.  She is still here.  Everyday managing to tread darkest waters.

A Question of Comic Art

Emma_Frost_(Earth-811)I have recently become a fan of comic books.  Sorry, graphic novels.  Mostly because of my husband.  That’s what happens when you marry a geek.  You learn stuff.

While I don’t pretend to be fully versed in the comic canon, thanks to my other half and the great people at Destination Venus, I am pretty well up on the good stuff.  Fables Legends in Exile, Kill Shakespeare, Lucifer, Runaways, Neil Gaimon’s Sandman, Joss Wheedon’s Astonishing X-Men and Buffy Season Eight, Alan Moore’s everything.  Seriously, Watchmen is up there with Catcher in the Rye.

As a result of this recent interest and as a feminist, my attention was quickly caught by a conversation on Facebook about comic book art.  Predictably, it was about boobs.  To his credit, I think my artist friend started the conversation with a creative gripe.  It was his intention to draw attention to the poor quality of mainstream comic book art in comparison with the artwork of many of the above-mentioned graphic novels.  Realism and proportion were at issue.  The conversation soon evolved into something more.

It’s probably not possible to discuss comic book art without talking about objectification. The aesthetic of comic art is a throwback to ancient Greece in its emphasis on perfection.  Female figures have exaggerated bums and boobs.  Men have muscles which border on the ridiculous.  I take that back, they don’t border on—they embrace and snog the ridiculous.

This was the first point made by a few people in this discussion.  You cannot complain about the representation of women because the representation of men is just as heightened, just as unattainable, just as psychologically and politically questionable.  My response is: yes I can and no it isn’t.

I most certainly can complain about visual representations of women in mainstream comic books because it’s pretty ridiculous.  The only good thing which might be said is that the target audience for comic books means fewer girls have access to the images and therefore they have a limited impact on their self-esteem and self-image.  But that is a minor point.  My main issue with the argument is one of equality.  Cause there ain’t none.

ThorWCAnytime anyone says “it’s the same for men” they are wrong.  Sorry to deflate your righteous indignation, men, but you got no leg to stand on.  Domestic violence is not the same for men as for women.  Unrealistic images of male perfection do not have the same impact.  You cannot claim any sexual equality because there is none.  There never has been.  We live in a patriarchal world.  Until that changes, no argument can exist about the equal impact on the sexes of anything.

If this still confuses you, let me break it down.  A superhero in a comic book might have a detrimental impact on the self-esteem of some imperfect teenaged boy who reads it.  But within a wider, cultural context, that boy’s worth is not based on his looks.  That boy will be judged by what he does not how he looks doing it.  Money, power, intelligence and influence matter far more in the patriarchy.  Furthermore, even without comic book art, women are valued first and foremost as sexual objects.  Every institution from marriage to procreation to the division of labour and property, access to education and healthcare—all of them in some way maintain patriarchal inequality.  There are rules and norms and life or death consequences behind those boobs and bums which do not exist for the muscles.

But the far more disturbing argument I heard today is that the comic books are being made for teenage boys.  Boobs and bums are what teenage boys want.  What they have always wanted.  What they are hardwired through nature to want.  And that cannot change.  Ever.

Bullshit.

Not bullshit that men desire women sexually.  Lust away.  It’s the idea, this hard to shake idea that men are creatures of desire alone when it comes to women and the expression of that desire which I totally, absolutely take issue with.  Even more the idea that men can’t change.  Of course they can.  We can.  Humans are adatable.  We’ve been changing and evolving since day one.  You think we’re going to stop now just because we can hold a spanner properly, walk a bit taller and get our dinner from Tesco?

And yet, despite all that—when it comes to sexual equality and who does the washing-up, people—men and women—resort to a caveman argument.  Boys will be boys.  That’s men for you.  Fire-gazers and boar-hunters who have not moved past the base instincts of homo habilis.  I hear stuff like this from intelligent, progressive women all the time.  I don’t know if we’ve given up or if we actually believe this crap but I’m here to say its bullshit.

sandman1_deathCulture shapes the brains, libidos and even bodies of men and women.  Culture can change it.  Trouble is, culture doesn’t really want to.  Patriarchy benefits men.  If you’re sitting pretty in the driver’s seat, why on earth would you willingly take your place at the back of the bus?  Slowly, gradually, men are starting to learn why.  Because it’s the right thing to do in the name of equality and social justice.  And because patriarchy has plans for men as well as women.  Plans that do not always benefit all men.

Lots of men get this.  They truly do.  I know many men who identify themselves as feminist.  One of those men said something once I will never forget.  He first acknowledged that when women challenge men on issues of gender inequality, people are quick to label those women male bashers or man haters.  “I have never believed this to be true,” he said.  “If a woman challenges me on my beliefs or behaviours, it means she realises I have the power to change.  It is an act of respect not hate.  It’s an act of love.”

Patriarchal objectification won’t stop me enjoying comic books.  Some wonderfully complex female characters have been created in word and image by these men (and they are mostly men).  But my enjoyment of comics won’t stop me calling a spade a shovel.  The male-dominated genre community should really know by now that it has some serious soul searching to do.  I’ll help you do it.  I’d like that.  With respectful anger and love.

 

 

 

 

A Response to ‘Women Against Feminism.’

Brilliant. True. Also depressing as hell.

iwantedwings

Imagine this:

The year is 2014. You are a white Western woman. You wake up in the morning in a comfortably sized house or flat. You have a full or part-time job that enables you to pay your rent or mortgage. You have been to school and maybe even college or university as well. You can read and write and count. You own a car or have a driver’s licence. You have enough money in your own bank account to feed and clothe yourself. You have access to the Internet. You can vote. You have a boyfriend or girlfriend of your choosing, who you can also marry if you want to, and raise a family with. You walk down the street wearing whatever you feel like wearing. You can go to bars and clubs and sleep with whomever you want.

Your world is full of freedom and possibility.

Then you…

View original post 1,400 more words

The poster was totally asking for it.

It’s been a very long time since I last committed an act of civil disobedience but, as you can see, the poster was totally asking for it.

10492375_10152595739093659_7632263138585660036_n

This is not the first time I have seen this particular poster.  We’ve met on several occasions, exchanging glances across the short distance outside of a multistory car park.  It tempted me, I know it.  The insidious, misogynist message.  The graphic imagery straight out of 1950s era pulp fiction cover art.  The victim-blaming propaganda pouring from its tight-fitted lamination.

This poster was totally asking for it.

And so, after a lengthy period of intense flirtation, I acted.  I ripped it down.  I shoved it into my car.  I kidnapped it, defiled it and then stuffed the ruined remains in the bin.10410861_10152595740718659_3437244459888679975_n

Of course, before its final desecration, I had to make it understand just what it had done wrong.  But that would be selfish.  After all, I had the supreme pleasure of tearing down the poster.  I decided other forces should have the opportunity to vent their anger.

My daughters are aged ten and five.  Ten and five.  I wish they lived in a world where this poster didn’t exist.  I wish they lived in a world where a lot of things didn’t exist.  But I cannot let them live in a world of ignorance.

I didn’t tell them what to think.  I asked them to tell me what they thought of the poster.  My girls did me proud.

‘What does the poster show?’ I asked.

‘Someone scared.’

‘Someone getting murdered.’  The five-year-old is a bit more bloodthirsty than her sister.

‘Someone?’  I asked, emphasizing the last syllable.

‘A girl.’

‘And what is happening to her?’

‘Someone is hurting her.’

‘Someone?’

‘A man.  Probably.  It’s usually men who hurt women.  I don’t know why.’  My ten-year-old looked solemn as only she can.

‘Who do you think the poster is meant for?’

‘For girls,’ they chorused.

‘Who do you think it should be meant for?’

In unison they pointed to the disembodied black hand wrapped around the woman’s face.

‘Why?’

‘Because the hand is doing the murdering.’  That was the five-year-old again.

And here is where I took over the lesson.  There were many things I wanted to say but I have no desire to terrify children.  I kept my message simple and honest.

‘Two things I want you to understand about this poster.  First, if anything happens to you that makes you scared or hurt or uncomfortable you can tell me and I will be on your side to help you anyway I can.  Second, if anything happens to you that makes you feel scared or hurt or uncomfortable it is not your fault.  Not ever.’

For a moment, they both looked from the poster to me and back again in silence.

‘Can we tear it up now?’ asked the five-year old.

10561820_10152595739863659_7967071806040704692_nI gave them each a pair a scissors.

To the well-intentioned people of Harrogate District Community Safety Partnership, I have this to say: you should know better.  I realise you have a message to convey and I suspect, at least I hope, that you and I are on the same side.  We both want to keep women safe.  This poster and its message will not keep women safe.  It will keep them scared.  It will keep them ashamed.  It will keep them silent.  But it will not keep them safe because they are not the ones putting our community in jeopardy.

Blaming the victims of crime and violence does nothing to prevent crime and violence.  It does nothing to address the problems which lead the owners of black-gloved hands to commit crimes and violence.  And that’s not even beginning to address the fact that violators of women seldom wear black gloves.  They have no need for protective clothing because our misogynist culture protects them.  Every day, every hour, every minute women experience violence with gloves off and the patriarchal world lets it happen mostly without comment.

If you like HDCSP, I would be more than happy to offer advice for an alternative public service poster.  One aimed at the men who commit these crimes.  One which might stand a chance of keeping us all safe.

PS: if you put up another poster, I’ll just take it down again and I don’t think I’ll be alone.

 

At Mid-summer Shall I Rise

The following is an extract from the first chapter of my second novel Dead Maiden’s Book of Songs in which ghosts of the past haunt the Yorkshire town of Burly-the-Wath while a coven of witches rise to try and put things right.

Illustration by Elizabeth Snider.

From A Tudor Maiden’s Book of Psalms archived by St Becket’s Church of England Grammar School. 

Burly-the-Wath. 22nd June, 1563

Each morn I do offre up to Him above my soul.  At Mid night will I rise for mine deare Lord pryserving me from below.  At noon I cry out sweete lamments to heaven do I pray. Morning, evening and at non His hand showeth me the wey.

 

936064_10204460520659337_6242712851193932157_nA needle cannot thread itself.  Cecilia knew this.  Thread was a length of wool; needle was made of bone.  Both needed a hand to work them.  She tried without success to thread her needle with tender fingers which had not yet lost the plumpness of childhood.

The needle drew first blood.  It pricked Cecilia’s palm.  Disgusted she threw needle and thread to the floor where both became lost in the rushes.  She sucked the blood welling in her hand.  If I cannot school my fingers to be dextrous,she thought, my whole life shall be spent licking wounds.

At that moment the needle chose to obey.  Acting of its own power, needle surrendered to thread like a maiden to her lord.  They rose from the rushes as one and lay meekly in Cecilia’s lap ready to sew.

She looked about to make certain no one had seen.  Fortune was with her, the small brown mouse she fed on kitchen scraps.  Happily no one else was.

‘Fortune be always with me,’ she chanted to the brown mouse.

It was hardly her first experience with unnatural phenomenon.  Objects flew, water jug refilled themselves, candles lit without benefit of flame.  Cecilia wondered if these things were only in her head.  She prayed they were.

Throughout the normal course of her days, Cecilia Norvyle tried not to draw attention.  A thorny challenge considering all of Burly-the-Wath watched her, wary for signs of devilry or witchcraft.  The townsfolk thought her a changeling the fairies might reclaim any moment.  Because Cecilia was the daughter of a priest.

The king and his reformed religion allowed its leaders to marry and have children.  But kings, religions and reforms were fleeting things nowadays.  Under the old queen, Cecilia’s family had been forced into temporary exile in Flanders, but the new queen’s tolerance brought them home again.  Legitimate daughter of a new faith father.  Folk of Burrdale parish knew this.  But knowing a thing and believing a thing are not the same thing.

‘Give me to the church,’ Cecilia often begged.  ‘Let me devote myself to God.’

Less than a day’s journey was the Abbey of St Margaret.  There Cecilia might spend her days in sheltered seclusion.  Perhaps God would cure her of the strange and wondrous things she did and saw and dreamt.  But her parents had already buried three sons and Cecilia’s infant twin sister.  They would not be parted from their last surviving child.

Thus condemned, Cecilia strove not to bother anyone; to appear and behave as a pious and modest maid.  She dressed in simple clothes, kept close to hearth and home and never revealed she could read or write.  She kept her unusually deep blue eyes lowered—a singular violet in a field of green-brown and blue-grey.

Her only companion besides Fortune the Mouse was a nomadic cat.  Full black he was but for the hind legs which were pure white and of a slightly shaggier fur; his body large, lean and strangely muscular.  A true brute of a beast to anyone save Cecilia.  The cat growled defensively at every parishioner who made a sign against the evil eye behind the back of the priest’s daughter.

‘You wear saint’s greaves ‘neath your dark armour, sir,’ Cecilia told him, tickling the white ruff of fur at the cat’s heels.  ‘You are my Archangel,’ she whispered as he rubbed his ebony head against her.  ‘My Michael.’

It was a sad truth of Cecilia’s lie that her sole companions, Fortune the Mouse and Michael the Cat, could never meet for fear one might consume the other.

The summer of her fifteenth year broke out in pansies and primroses.  Cecilia began work on a gown for the Midsummer festival.  She looked forward every year to the Feast of St John, where so many curiosities abounded no one would notice her.  People dressed in fantastical costumes: sometimes as mythical creatures, sometimes garbed only in floral garlands.  Churchman, ploughman, trader, shepherd and pauper would parade the streets with torches and tankards of ale playing music as they went.

For one day she put modest dress aside.  With Mistress Norvyle’s guidance Cecilia altered her mother’s old silk and linen gown of willow green, shaping it to her younger body, embroidering it with violets, ivy and musk roses.  On the morning of the festival she wove fresh versions of these flowers in her waist-length honey-coloured hair.

Is this wise?  Shall I draw attention to myself?  What if something unnatural should occur?  Yet everyone will be laughing and feasting.  None will give me a second glance. 

One did.

He was an Unfortunate from the church school.  That’s what folk in town called them: The Unfortunates.  Some of the boys, Cecilia knew, turned the slander into a title.

He looked to be of a similar age as she, fifteen or sixteen years.  Beneath full white linen breeches his legs and feet were bare.  His ruddy chest was bare as well.  Ropes of ivy draped about him like some savage warrior.  His thick, brown curls were flecked with daisies and meadow sweet.

Cecilia couldn’t help admiring the young man.  When he caught her looking at him, his radiant smile nearly made her weep with longing.   Laughing, he took her by the hand and led her along the parade route.  Cecilia laughed with him as they followed the river, crossed the Bridge of Souls and finished in the churchyard.  The whole of Burly-the-Wath seemed to laugh with them.

‘They call me Tom.’  He did not let go of her hand.  ‘Tom o’ the Streets.  Or some call me Tommy Street.’

Cecilia couldn’t speak.  He held her hand and his sun-baked chest was bare.  He had flowers in his hair.  She couldn’t say a word.   She could only smile.

‘You’re Father Norvyle’s girl,’ said Tom.  Cecilia nodded.  ‘I seen you before.’  Cecilia blushed.  ‘But you never see me.’  Cecilia frowned.

‘I see you,’ she protested.

‘Aye,’ grinned Tom.  ‘Your Mam sees me too.’

Tom nodded over her shoulder.  Catherine Norvyle glared at the two of them across the churchyard of All Hallowed Souls.  Before Cecilia could turn to look, Tom pulled her behind a yew tree growing beside an ancient tomb dark with age.

‘Tell me your name,’ he begged.  ‘No one will tell me.  Maybe nobody knows.  Please.  Just tell me your name.’

Cecilia fought to remember how to form words, struggled to find her breath to make the sound he wanted.  She felt faint and leaned back against the lichen stained tomb closing her violet eyes.  Deep inside a voice unlike her own stuttered a version of her name.

‘C-C-Celia.’  Her body exhaled to him in hesitant gusts.

‘Celia.’  He inhaled the sound deeply, as if her name were a rare fragrance he remembered from long ago.

Against the hard stone tomb the boy variously called Tom pressed his hands into those of the girl he knew as Celia.  Beneath their twined fingers the tomb’s wall pulsed hard once, then again in a softer echo.  Like a heartbeat.  Awake and alive.

Elsewhere in the churchyard the black ears of a cat called Michael flickered to attention and a white-breasted bird took flight.


 

Adequate Drain

Venus_de_Milo_Louvre_Ma399_n7This story is a definite departure from my usual: not set in Yorkshire, first person and real damn short. Shortest story I’ve ever written. As always, feedback is welcome!

I freaking hate locker rooms.  But where else am I supposed to go?  There’s an abattoir in Farmer City.  But I can’t, like, bike twenty miles to Famer City.  And what would I say: “hey, nice slaughter house—mind if I use it?”  Unlikely.

An adequate drain is crucial and this is the best place I could think of.  Call it lack of imagination.  Maybe I crave familiarity.  Maybe I like to punish myself.  Who am I kidding?  I so like to punish myself.

The school is dark and quiet after hours.  Creepy.  It shouldn’t be really.  Not to me.  What’ve I got to be scared of?  Bet we’re hard-wired to find silent darkness unsettling.  Evolution and crap.  Survival of the scaredest.  See, I pay attention in Bio.

Anyway.  Time’s wasting.  I look around.

“You’re alone, stupid.”

Force of habit.  Girls strip off while covering up.  Hide behind towels, sweaters, locker doors trying not to notice each other.  Like we can help noticing.  Comparing.  I don’t compare well.  Yet.

I peel my clothes off.  I’m sweating so bad everything sticks.  I take the picture, the bottle, and Michelangelo to the shower stall.  No cubicles obviously.  Health and safety!  God forbid teenage girls get privacy.  But boy howdy I got drainage.  I’m all about adequate drainage.

The girl in the picture looks like a bitch.  But there’s no mirror in the showers.  Obviously.  So picture bitch is my point of reference.  Every sculptor needs a model, right?  I set the bottle down, blue tack picture bitch to the chipped tile surround of the shower stall and pick up Michelangelo.  My tool.  My muse.  Or am I his?

My art teacher once said Michelangelo, started with a big, shapeless slab of marble.  Bit by bit he chipped away the excess until tadah: David.  Really, that’s all I’m trying to do.  Make me a David.  Be like Michelangelo.   I should have a wristband: “WWMD?”

I first wanted to use Mom’s fabric scissors.  Number of times I’ve watched her cut patterns to make something new.  Thick concentric lines on wispy thin paper indicating different sizes.  That’s what I’m doing really.  Cutting a new pattern.  Resizing.  Mom would totally kill me if I used her sewing scissors for this.  I’m not fabric.

I take up the knife/chisel I call Michelangelo and look down at the marbled slab of me.  Yesterday was legs.  Night before that belly and butt.  Tonight’s all about arms.

I don’t think anyone’s noticed yet.  But that’s the point.  I could do this all at once.  Get it over with.  If only!  Dramatic, overnight change wouldn’t go unnoticed.  Mom would notice.  She would freak.  Freak at her daughter the freak.

So I play the long game.  Small changes.  Piece at a time.

Right arm first.  Like painting your nails.  You’re meant to start by using your off-hand.  No idea why.  I make a fist and shake, letting the flab settle.  Man that’s gross.

Not for long.

I look at picture bitch.  Perfectly shaped arms flop in a lazy cross over her blonde head.  I angle the carving knife at my elbow and work down.

Michelangelo might be my muse but when I’m working I can’t think of myself as a sculptor.  I pretend I’m shaving.  Because that’s what it is really.  Shaving off pieces of me.  Can’t say it doesn’t hurt like hell though.  Cause it does.  But not for long.

By the time the knife carves out the curve of my armpit I’m already healing.  Severed halves of upper-arm puppy fat wriggle and struggle to reunite.  My flesh meets in desperate wrinkles like plastic wrap that just has to cling to itself.  But there is less of it now.  Less flesh.  Less fat.  Less clinging to me.

Lots of blood though.  Hence the need for drainage.  Hey!  I used the word “hence” in a sentence.  Thanks English teacher!  I have to sit down though.  Just til the throbbing stops which doesn’t take long.  I heal fast.  Obviously.

Meanwhile: bottle time.  I unscrew the safety cap on the acid.  Beside the enormous drain hole of the shower stall lies the triangular chunk of my discarded, disconnected flesh.  I half expect it to flop like a fish out of water.  But it doesn’t.  It just lies there.  I dribble acid carefully over the ex-piece of my arm which hisses then bubbles.  The acid gobbles up my tasty arm fat before trickling down the drain.

Yum.

I wonder, not for the first time, if somewhere in the bowels of Greenup County is a sewage monster made of my cast-off flesh.  As quickly as I heal it would not surprise me.  What if it comes looking for me someday?  A great, white whale of sewage waste.  Moby Dick seeking Ahab.  I really don’t want to be Ahab. We read it in lit class.  It doesn’t end well for him.

Throbbing subsides and I work my left arm now.  It’s not like ear piercing: do one and it hurts so freaking bad you can’t face the second.  This is more like: one down so what’s the diff?  I’m used to it and I try to see the bigger picture.  Or should I say the smaller picture?

Smaller picture of myself.  Concentric circles of me.  Cutting out my pattern.  Paring me down.  Piece at a time.

But I will heal.  I heal fast.  Freak-sician freaking heal thyself.