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They walked together in the cold dusk air in silence. Holding hands, gazing up at the clouds moving across the sky. The clouds transforming, breaking apart and reforming, moulded by the wind before their eyes. The blue hour came and went as they walked along the beach; a layer of sand clinging to their damp feet, the excess falling from their toes as they walked. The clouds, at first plump and white before sunset, became thin and wispy and moved at the whim of the salty night air. As the sky darkened and the sun disappeared below the horizon the clouds became less and less distinct from the sky. But as the moon rose in the sky and the clouds moved between them and it, the moon’s glow picked out the frayed edges of the clouds. They watched as the shapes of the clouds morphed, reminding each of them of one thing then another.
As they moved through the club, the music so loud they felt it in their bellies, the lights moved through their cycle of colours. Pink, red and yellow, then green, violet and blue. The strobe pulsed with the bass. Lighting up the dancefloor like a camera flash; capturing still moments while dancers moved in time with the music. She led him by the hand as they walked through the crowded club. They made a bee-line toward the dancefloor sticky with spilt drinks and humid from the sweat of so many bodies in such a small space. The smoke machine by the DJ's booth belched out coconut-scented smoke, masking the odour of so many sweaty bodies and the scent of sex. They danced for a while; favourite songs pouring out of the speakers. Their bodies in rhythm with each other from so many nights spent together on dancefloors around town. When they'd had enough they collapsed into each other on a stained and worn velour couch that's original colour was now hard to discern even when the house lights went up at 5 am. They sank blissfully into the couch and each other's arms.
They sat on the sand, the headlights from his car providing light for them to see each other by. Rugged up in coats and blankets, mittens and beanies, they curled up close to draw heat from each other. They couldn't light a fire on the beach, so they shivered in the spotlight of the low beams, watching the fog drift in from the sea and their warm breath billow against the cold night air. They giggled together as they attempted to blow smoke rings into the sky. The car radio, picking up the only station nearby, played a mixture of golden oldies, and love songs and dedications. They pressed their faces, blushed pink from the cold, together in an attempt to bring feeling back to flesh. Their warm breath mingled and rose into the cold night air as though from one person. They lay back to stare up at the cloudless sky and the stars overhead as the classic hits continued to pour from the tinny speakers in the car’s dashboard.
Their clothes were strewn behind them, discarded on the sand like breadcrumbs in fairytales, as they ran through the rain toward the waves. The beach was deserted this time of night, especially in this inclement weather. There was no one around to see their antics or their naked bodies as they ran into the water. The water still warm from the heat of the sun earlier in the day, but cooling on their skin. They waded together and splashed each other with the salty, foamy water as they moved into the shallows. As they sauntered further in they savoured the lapping tide moving against their bodies and the rain falling on their bare skin. The water now up to their waists, they clasped hands again and moved out until the water was almost up to their shoulders. They leaned their heads back in the water, lifting their feet off the seabed, floating with eyes up toward the sky. After allowing their bodies to float for a while, they swam together, heads under the water. They rolled over in the water from time to time and opened their eyes to look up at the night sky through the waves. Watching the ripples of moonlight and the lights along the boardwalk refracting through the water's surface. Marvelling at the patterns and shapes of light drifting through the water. Lost together in the beauty of the moment and submerged in their muted underwater world.
I watched you as you talked. My eyes read your lips as you spoke, though I could hear every word. When you paused my eyes rested on yours; watched your eyelashes as you blinked and squinted in the sunlight. In the longer pauses, I let my eyes leave your face and follow your gaze out to sea.
We'd found a quiet spot above the rocks by the water, nestled away from joggers, dog-walkers and cyclists. The sandy patch where we sat was too small for strangers to feel comfortable joining us. Couples peered down from the path from time to time but moved on to find their own secluded space along the waterfront when they saw us.
We hadn't sought out somewhere private, isolated. We happened upon this spot, and from the path above noticed some interesting rocks. Gun-metal grey pebbles worn smooth by the high tide. The sun-bleached bones of a bird. The latter drew us down here for a closer look. After balancing on rocks inspecting the skeleton we gravitated to the sandy patch of earth behind to continue our conversation.
It was one of those slow, lazy, relaxed conversations old friends have. The ones that nestle on comfortable silences. The kind that comes easy, flows smoothly but drifts off into natural silences from time to time. This is how we talked most times we caught up. Especially on long summer days when we didn't have to be anywhere in particular. Though from time to time we'd meet at a bar and talk over each other in excited bursts. Especially when we hadn't caught up in a while and there was a lot to tell.
On a day like today where we both found ourselves on a break from work, we would meander along the coastline. Enjoying the sea breezes. Seeking out creatures, living or dead, amongst the rocks. And talking like this.
But today felt different. From the first moment we met and hugged, as we did each time we met. Something unspoken seemed to be between us and this time it didn't feel like it was only from me. As soon as I thought that, though, I brushed the thought aside. Wrote it off as my imagination. An overactive mind. Dismissed it completely. Or so I thought.
Then, as we sat by the water talking about everything and nothing, skimming grey pebbles across the soft, low waves, the feeling came back. As the sun became stronger at the peak of the afternoon we felt lazier and both lay down. Our knees bent, our forearms resting across our eyes to shield them from the sun. Without thinking, we'd ended up laying down side-by-side. But that was never a big deal before so, again, I brushed the thought aside. We were comfortable together. And it made conversation easier as the sound of the waves grew louder in our ears.
But then, laying next to you, a little more relaxed from our time in the sun and the sneaky pint of cider I'd had over lunch, every movement felt magnified. More significant. As we spoke about memories from years ago, your hand gently slapped my thigh as you broke into peals of laughter. As your palm connected with my skin, it felt like a jolt of electricity. I tried not to flinch or show any outward sign of how it made me feel. But the feeling coursed through my body to other places, out of my control. I laughed with you, distracted. I wondered if you'd noticed. But then a plane flying overhead changed the course of our conversation. And the moment passed.
As we talked, I snuck furtive, sidelong glances at you. Trying to figure out if my senses were right or if it is was the sun addling my thoughts. You continued to talk to me as you always did. And again I brushed aside the sense that anything was different. I listened to the sound of your voice; so familiar, calming, warm.
The tone of your voice leapt as you remembered a night we'd gone out together many years ago. Your voice was full of laughter as you rolled over onto one elbow to face me; to observe my expression as you reminded me of it. I removed my right forearm from one eye to watch your animated face as you spoke, whilst still shielding my gaze from the sun's harsh light.
Before I had time to think, my left hand sought out yours resting on the sand next to me. My hand curved around yours. Clasping it gently, but at the same time conveying everything I was feeling. I pulled my right arm away from both eyes now, gazing straight into your eyes. I held my breath for what seemed like an eternity.
She stumbled toward the edge of the forest. Broken, bewildered, disoriented. She wasn't sure quite how she got here or quite how she was going to get home. She wasn't really certain of anything, of anyone. Of herself.
As she entered the forest, the birds gathering on branches above her called to one another. An insect hum provided a white noise bass line to their melody. The snap and crack of branches underfoot as she walked further into the forest created a syncopated, faltering percussion.
As she walked by one of the redwoods, she stumbled, her bare foot catching on a fern frond curling across the forest floor. She reached for the strong, thick old trunk of the tree; grasping it to catch her fall. Though the bark of the tree scraped skin from her forearms as she embraced it to stop from falling, she held it tighter as she regained her footing, as though her life depended upon it (and maybe it did).
She turned and leaned her back against the tree’s trunk, listening to the sounds above her. She closed her eyes and let the sounds - primarily the birdsong - wash over her. She became vaguely aware of the sap from the redwood’s trunk dripping at a seemingly glacial speed onto her shoulder as she stood, mesmerised by nature.
She shook her head, brushed her wild mane of hair back from her face, opened her eyes and looked around her. Eyes lingering on the eternity of trees stretching out in front of her, then the glimpses of sky through the canopy overhead, then falling on a cluster of mushrooms at the base of the trunk of the next ancient, towering tree.
She wove her way through the forest like a somnambulist. Dazed, her eyes unfocused. She felt like she'd somehow ended up being the last person on earth. She felt isolated, yet liberated. Free from other people, the crowds, the harsh sounds of the city. Surrounded by creatures possessed with the gift of flight, of music; self-sufficient in nature, without any need of humans.
She watched as a squirrel scurried across the forest floor and ascended to a branch to hoard its findings. She watched ants moving in armies up and down the length of a tree trunk, carrying morsels from the undergrowth into a knot in the wood. She envied them the simplicity of their lives. The ordered way in which the ants collaborated and cooperated. The home the squirrel had made overhead.
As she walked, she stooped from time to time to gather up some of the larger fallen branches until her arms were full. She moved toward a nearby clearing and carefully arranged the branches on the ground. She gathered more branches, not really thinking closely about what she was doing, just following some sort of instinct; a calming instruction sent directly from her mind to her limbs. She moved back and forth between the trees; selecting, collecting, depositing, nesting.
After a time the branches took on a form; a circular, welcoming shape that drew her in, made her feel more calm, more settled. At home. She continued adding to her construction, not thinking, just doing. Like the ants, but alone. The placement of the branches methodical, precise, yet appearing haphazard. The curve of the branches raised on one side and lower on the other; like some sort of pottery dish moulded by an amateur not yet skilled in the art of ceramics.
She paused as she approached her construction. Surveying it to assess whether it needed anything further, or was it complete? A gentle smile touched her lips as she decided it would do perfectly.
Her bare feet raw and stinging from walking back and forth across the forest floor; across twigs and branches and the odd soft cluster of fallen leaves and scattered fern fronds. Her shoulders and back warm with a satisfying ache from bending, lifting and carrying. She stepped into the circle of branches, bent her knees and gently placed her arse, thighs and lower back against the curve of the side of her construction, and leaning to one side, moulded her spine along the wall of the nest. Her hair tumbled over her face, obscuring her vision as she closed her eyes and the sound of the birdsong seemed to lift in her ears. She wrapped her arms around herself, embracing her aching body.
As she lay there in the forest, the thick smells from the undergrowth seeped into her nostrils. The smell of the wood, the soil, the musty smell of the mushrooms growing nearby. In her ears the continuing call and answer of the birds overhead, the hum of insects echoing across the space.
As she curled into herself further, one sentence gently circled in her mind: I am home.
every morning and every night she stood in front of the mirror practising her poker face. hoping one day she might master the art of hiding her true feelings when she most needed to. she stared deep into her own eyes, willing herself to lose all expression; keep her eyes fixed upon her own eyes; let no betraying tic or flicker of lashes reveal what she was really feeling inside. what she really thought. of herself. of them. of this whole situation.
just when she thought she might have finally managed it. managed to hide everything away, even from herself, the mask would slip. just a little. a flash of anger; a glimpse of sorrow; a wave of confusion; or a flicker of frustration. it would slide across her face, like a ripple on the surface of a pool of water as a droplet disturbs it. she would flinch as she realised the mask had slipped. curse herself and her inability to keep her mask in place.
it was often the smallest thing. a slight tic in her eyelid; a soft turn-up or down of her mouth. but enough to reveal the thoughts she tried so studiously to keep close to her heart. away from prying eyes. the emotions she tried to keep out of reach of others. of herself.
as she gazed into the mirror she tried to withdraw everything back into herself. back in on itself. coil it up, bury it.
she might manage to hold the mask in place for an hour; sometimes she could only hold it for a minute. she tried to summon up complete emptiness; apathy; vacancy; a vacant stare; a distant stare; a wall between herself and her reflection.
she hoped by mastering her poker face she could shut out all feelings. get above and out of everything around her. isolate herself from them, this, even herself. she felt perhaps it would be like a higher level of freedom. a cocoon. a haven away from all of this.
she had to at least try. she returned her own gaze. she held it longer this time. she felt strong. she felt safe. she felt separate from everything. connected, but disconnected, from herself. here but somewhere else; nowhere. she felt full and empty at the same time, but pushed the feeling of fullness down until emptiness filled the space inside her.
she watched herself closely. barely able to breath. afraid that at any moment this feeling of empty tranquility would be shattered. that it would be lost. that the mask would slip again. she kept time listening to her own heartbeat in her ears. it was regular and slow, loud; she felt it pulsing beneath her skin. the pulse was reassuring, soothing, calming. she focussed on her heartbeat. focussed on her breathing. focussed on her eyes gazing back at her from the mirror. tried not to let the mask slip. tried to let it all fall away except the mask.
she watched the mask as she breathed, as her heart beat in her ears. she watched the stillness of the mask. the blank, smooth surface. for a moment she imagined it slipping, but she drove the thought from her mind and it stayed in place. or did it? was she absolutely sure it hadn't slipped? her heartbeat quickened, her breath caught ever so slightly, she tried to withdraw back into the emptiness to slow her heart, steady her breathing. but it was too late. the mask had definitely slipped. her poker face had dropped away in an instant. again. despite all her attempts to keep it in place.
she watched as it crumbled; melted; melded; mutated. it all slipped away, out of her hands, out of her control. her face went ashen; her mouth betrayed her with the tremble of a lip. she watched as the mask slid from her face, to the floor again. she couldn't look herself in the eye any longer. she shook, she gasped, she tried not to sob.
she didn't know if she could pick up the mask again, but she had to try. she had to bring it back up to cover up all she felt inside. they couldn't know, they couldn't see. she had to try again. and again. and again. until she got it right. until she had perfected it. her poker face. the wall between her and the rest of the world. the safe cushioned surface to protect her from them, you, us. but mostly from herself.
The moment when a 'Prince' Thranduil tells his future wife Êlúriel he's in love with her. #Thranduil. #Fanfiction. #amwriting.
He was back in front of this window; the window that had ended his school days, every day.
When he was young, he used to stop and gaze up at the model boat and the marine rescue vehicle as he arrived home each day. He would stand there, distracted for long moments.
So long, that his mother - waiting, anxiously, for him to return home from school - would open the curtains and find him stood there. Motionless, head tilted back, mouth slightly gaping and staring up at the boat.
She would come to the front door and watch him for a minute or two, a soft smile playing at the edges of her lips before she bundled him up and took him inside to the kitchen. She would ask him about his day while she prepared supper and listened to the tales he would bring home from the schoolyard.
His fascination with the boat had not waned over the years, but he had stopped gawping at it as he grew older. There were girls to gaze at instead, and as he grew up, they were what caught his eye or kept his attention as he arrived home each day from high school.
As he reached the end of high school, he was usually too busy sneaking in one last kiss with his girlfriend, Sarah, as he unlocked the front door of the house and said his goodbyes for the day.
The model boats, the marine rescue vehicle and the lighthouse baffled him a little bit when he was growing up.
Their home was twenty minutes from the nearest body of water, and that was a river, not an ocean or the sea. Hardly somewhere that a lighthouse or a marine rescue vehicle would be needed, let alone various large boats or ships.
The models were his dad's, but he didn't talk much about them and didn't like being asked about them.
His dad didn't really like being asked about anything. Or talking about anything.
The models just sat on the windowsill gathering dust, hidden from the inside of the house by the curtains. A display for others, not for us.
Except him, of course; he was fascinated by them.
On occasion, when his dad was in a more social mood or simply wanted to distract him while he talked with the grown-ups, his father would let him take down the marine rescue vehicle. Roll it across the rug, pretending he was saving his Lego men from some maritime disaster.
But his dad was always firm about the boat. The boat was not a toy. It wasn't to be removed from the window. He had received more than one firm slap across his legs and buttocks for even inching his fingers up toward the boat.
It was only in the past few years that his mother talked more about his dad's upbringing. It was only in the past few years, as he became more ill and his mind started to slip that his father spoke about the sea. It was one of the few things he could still connect with. That he still remembered.
He didn't remember faces, except his wife's. He never remembered birthdays; that was no change. But he could talk vividly about the sea. The sound of it. The smell. The feel of it on his hands.
His dad would sometimes stop mid-sentence and tilt his head as if listening closely to a conversation through the walls. After a few moments like this, he would invariably ask if they could hear the waves. They nodded and smiled awkwardly, hearing nothing, but knowing that they had to agree. That his dad would look crestfallen and confused if they said "no".
Growing up, he never met his dad's parents. His dad never spoke of his father, so he grew up believing he only had one set of grandparents. He didn't question this for a long time, and then it seemed too late to ask. Too awkward of a conversation to have.
Coming home now, facing the front windows of his childhood home, he gazed once more at the boats, the lighthouse, the marine rescue vehicle. He knew that now he could lift them out of the window and take a closer look. He knew that no one would reprimand him for that.
Since his dad had died, a lot of pieces had fallen into place in the puzzle. His mum had opened up dusty photo albums hidden away in the loft for decades. Too painful for his dad to look at, to speak about, to share.
In the yellowed black and white photographs taken in his dad's childhood, a warm, smiling, middle-aged man gazed into the camera from the railing of a boat.
He waved at the photographer with a look of love.