The Terminator - quick story

Hello. I've been feeling really blocked up this week (mentally - I'm not constipated, thank you). The stress of trying to create poetry for a marked assignment has been driving me to distraction, and as a result my mind has closed itself off to the possibility of stringing words together into a coherent sentence. So today I tried to write a really quick story as my mental laxative, using a famous film title as my inspiration. This is what was produced whilst I was waiting for the cottage pie to cook. I hope you enjoy it x

The Terminator

Sophie peered through the telescope at the Terminator, the delineating boundary separating darkness and light on the surface of the moon.  She looked specifically at the newly discovered crater that she would request be named ‘JaLoftus’ in Jamie’s honour. The slither of impenetrable blackness against the mottled black of the surrounding rocks had since been observed by only a handful of people with the most powerful of specialist telescopes. Yet Sophie had made the discovery using a fairly modest 30 year old reflecting telescope, enhanced with a new neutral density filter and Sophie’s almost supernatural ability to spot miniscule differences in contrast. Her photographic memory ensured that she was always alert to any new shapes or contrasts in the moon’s surface.

            Sophie knew that her discovery, with the associated connotations regarding the rate of rotation of the moon, would be enough to transform Jamie’s doctoral thesis from a standard pass to a ground-breaking document that would win him the respect of his peers and probably the reputation as a leading selenographer. And if his reputation led to a position of importance somewhere else in the world she would go with him gladly.

            ‘Hey, Sophie. Who’s that postcard from on your desk?’ Stevie, Sophie’s assistant in the astronomy lab, yanked off his ipod and flung it onto his cluttered workstation along with his tatty rucksack and leather bikers’ jacket.

            ‘Hi Stevie. I dunno. Tim from downstairs brought it up earlier; I’ll read it later. Look, check this out …’ Sophie removed her eye from the lens and gestured for Stevie to take a look. ‘It’s moved again. The Terminator. Galileo suggested this could happen four hundred years ago, but nobody listened. When those twits at NASA read Jamie’s thesis they’ll be eating their words …’

            Stevie gazed at Sophie with his head tilted to the left. Letting his breath go he moved across to the telescope and looked through the eyepiece, right eye squinted tightly closed. He held the telescope with the lightest of touches, wary of making the tiniest adjustment to the highly calibrated piece of equipment.

            ‘Sophie what the hell am I looking at? It’s the same as yesterday, as last week …’

            ‘No, dummy, look! The left edge of the crater, towards the top. Can you see a section slightly higher than the rest? That’s a new feature. Or new to us, anyway. It isn’t catalogued; you can check. That means that the light coming from the Earth is hitting the moon at new angles, which means …’

            ‘Yeah, yeah, Soph. I know what it means. I just don’t see it.’

            Sophie was exasperated that Stevie and her other colleagues , who spent as much time as she did staring at the moon, always struggled to make out the features she could detect so easily. They had enough respect for her work and her reputation not to doubt her, but in this instance Stevie was obviously struggling to combat his incredulity. After all, she would doubt the veracity of this astonishing find if she couldn’t see it so clearly with her own eyes. She adjusted the hair band that kept her thick auburn hair from falling into her eyes and puffed out her cheeks.

            The only person with whom she could really share the almost erotic excitement of each tiny advance in understanding the moon was Jamie. He loved to be near her at the facility; since he had appeared as a volunteer from Manchester University eight months ago they had spent almost every evening together, beneath the moon. At times when the moon was waning they would study the newest photographs from the Southern Hemisphere and discuss possible angles for Jamie’s thesis. She was looking forward to seeing him again after his well-earned rest; he was like the waxing to her waning and he made her feel whole. Her friends would laugh, but they had never experienced the romance of gazing together at that distant rock, breathing in each other’s air. His hand finding her back, creating craters in her skin at that serene moment was about as erotic an experience as you could have. Almost matched by the frenzied fucking on all fours that usually followed on that rough industrial carpet after the others had left for home.

            The bonus of working as an astronomer was that most of her work was done at night. So Jamie had fallen for her under the gentle moonlight, away from the mundane details of daylight living. They were akin to vampires or werewolves, adoring each other during the dark hours, their coupledom restricted to the unreal existence they led. The time would come for them to move forwards into the light, but for now she was happy. Ecstatic.

            Stevie pointed to Sophie’s moon-rock pendant. ‘So when will you be getting this diamond, then? And the big proposal …?’

            ‘It might not be a diamond,’ Sophie giggled. ‘I said he’d promised a sparkling rock next time. You drew your own conclusions.’

            ‘Where is he anyway?’

            ‘He’s gone to see his parents. They wanted to celebrate him completing his thesis.’

            ‘The one that you mainly wrote, you mean?’

            Sophie turned to look sharply at Stevie, but he met her gaze with a smirk. She looked away and insisted ‘Stevie you know that’s not it. I just helped. So would you, if your special someone needed it.’

            Stevie scratched his round belly through his ‘Iron Maiden Somewhere on tour ‘86’ T-shirt.

            ‘If Megan Fox asked me to discover a new lunar crater, give her credit for its discovery then write her doctoral thesis in return for a few midnight shags and a moon-rock necklace then I’d oblige her, sure.’

            A pink hue spread across Sophie’s cheeks, but her rebuttal stuck in her throat as she caught sight of his cheeky grin.

            ‘Come on, Sophie. It’s getting cloudy. Let’s go to the pub. First round’s on me.’

            The two friends picked up their coats. In their hurry they forgot all about the postcard on Sophie’s desk. On one side was a panorama of a beach, wooden huts dipping their stilts into the perfect turquoise sea. The message on the reverse read:

            Dear Sophie, thanks for all the fun and your help with my studies. You really are a special girl. I’ve got an interview for an associate lecture post at Cambridge, leading to a tenured Professor post, if I’m lucky. And next month I’ve been asked to do a TV interview (on ScienceWatch!!!) to talk about the moving Terminator. And you made it all possible. Take care of yourself and see you around, maybe. All our love, Jamie, Kate (and bump!) x

W.E. - worst film in recent memory?

I think, with my slightly wonky 'film critic' hat on, that Madonna definitely needs to stick to dancing inappropriately in inappropriate clothes, because her directing skills stink. I'm not trying to be a film critic here, but I just have to get this nasty film out of my system by spewing it all over my blog. Then maybe I'll be able to sleep comfortably tonight. So, spoiler alert!!
     Today I went to see WE at the cinema. I liked the idea of the story, but was slightly anxious about the film being directed by Madonna. However, if I had known how horrible this film was going to be I would have bitten the bullet and gone to watch War Horse instead (a film about a horse in the war ... well, maybe not!). The main problem I had with the film was that there seemed to be 2 main characters - Wallis in the 1930s and a random woman, Wally, living in New York in 1998. The scenes alternated between these 2 women throughout the film, suggesting that they were living parallel lives, but actually doing nothing of the sort. In fact, Wally didn't seem to be living much of a life at all except to spend every day going all Walter Mitty at a WE exhibition at Sotheby's. I actually found her behaviour quite embarrassing, finding myself annoyingly rolling my eyes and sniggering throughout. I'm guessing that Madonna was trying to be clever and felt that she couldn't just tell a story, making the most of the great actors, settings and costumes. I can understand that need to create something unique; as a novice writer I often find myself getting tangled up in increasingly complex plots for stories, before finally accepting the fact that I need to attack most of what I have produced with a large pair of scissors. Unfortunately, it seems that Madonna never reached this acceptance stage before the film was released. Or, more likely, nobody was brave enough to tell her that the film was crap and needed sorting out.
     To add to the misery (only slightly alleviated by a coffee, 2 cheese croissants, a jumbo bag of jumbo milky way buttons and 3 walnut whips), the camera work definitely made me feel nauseous (it really was the camera work, not my little snack!). There were shaky shots, too-close-up shots and scenes where the camera flicked all over the place. Often the shot would focus on some innocuous object, such as a set of keys or a glass, for no reason whatsoever. And long gaps in the dialogue that you usually see in classic novel adaptations. Overall I think that Madge has simply watched a few art house / Roman Polanski films with a bit of Jane Austen chucked in and tried to force a simple love story into a framework that it simply doesn't fit. The ending was particularly lame, with a pregnancy and the hint that they would all live Happily Ever After.
     If you get the chance to watch this film, please don't. And if you've already seen it I'd love to know if you felt the same way I did. 2 hours that I'll never get back. And indigestion.

I love my library

I'm feeling really pleased with myself right now. I managed to get the first 2 volumes of the Bloodaxe trilogy, Stephen Fry's 'The Ode Less Travelled' and 'Teach Yourself Writing Poetry' (at a worryingly late stage of the course) from my local library today. As the website suggests there is only one copy of each available, I'm wondering what the other local students on my course are reading. Not these books, anyway. Sorry - if you're not fast, you're last!
     Another reason to feel pleased is that I actually managed to spend time in the library, walking past multitudes of lovely books, and not take anything out, other than these course books. That's like an alcoholic walking into a bar and ordering a lemonade. Or a gambler going to the bookies to borrow a pencil. Well, you get the picture. I even picked a few novels off the shelves just to look at and admire. But I was strong and managed to resist. It helped that there was a nagging voice in my head (belonging to my husband) telling me to 'read those bloody books in the cupboard so we can clear it out and make way for work stuff.' I know, the message being to stop buying and borrowing books when there are piles of unread ones cluttering up the house. And I just end up stressing myself out with loads of stuff waiting to be read (library books reaching their return-by dates), OU work to be done, films on the v+ box to watch and the usual housework/shopping/laundry. So, now I'm going to focus on the poetry (in and around my current read, of course) and try to give some constructive feedback to fellow students on the forum.

     Something that makes me want to SCREAM is the length of waiting lists for the newest shite bestsellers in the library. The lady in front of me in the queue wanted to take out a Clive Cussler and a James Pattinson (I think ...) and was told there were 21 people in the waiting list ahead of her. Almost 2 years to wait for that pap, whilst the shelves are filled with amazing reads that no one ever takes out. I was mainly tempted today by Don Delillo's Americana and a recent book of short stories by Joyce Carol Oates. Yet both of these books had only 1 date stamp each. That just makes me want to cry, and then take them out, just to make them look more popular. Just as all the people in your Facebook network who have 1ooo's of friends are usually the most boring people in real life (that is, if they have one ...), the books in the library with the most stamps you can bet are the ones that will make you want to despair at the sheer waste of words and paper. Speaking of which, I must get back to this alliterative poetry (I'm writing a poem about my vacuum cleaner. Can you believe how boring my life is - don't be fooled by the fact that I only have 70 Facebook friends!!).

Sore nipple (warning - gratuitous nipple talk!)

I decided to give myself a treat after receiving a good score for my TMA (previous post). So, after dropping the kids off at school and ignoring the persistent voice in my head that said 'Why are you doing this? Go and put your feet up and read a book instead!', I caught the Metro into Newcastle and went in search of the Blue Lotus piercing studio for a nipple piercing.

     Unfortunately, the place didn't open until 11, so I was left with 90 minutes to kill. I sat in Starbucks with a Vanilla Spiced Latte and a good book (sounds bliss), followed by a Skype call with the hubby in China. But all I could think about was a long pointy needle and a bleeding nipple. 'Why are you doing this you mad cow? Who's going to see it anyway?' But my mind was made up and I couldn't stand the thought of disappointing myself in such a cowardly fashion. So I browsed the shelves in Waterstones (picked up a copy of David Moody's Dog Blood for 99p!!) then forced myself onward to the studio.

     Luckily, the place was empty. I had been told that there was usually a queue of people in there waiting to get pierced (apparently it's all the fashion, but what the hell would I know). I wasn't looking forward to sitting there amongst a room full of students, all wondering what an almost-middle-aged woman was doing there: 'Is she lost? Does she think this is the Dentist? That's next door ...'. Then, before I had a chance to find a reason to back out (wrong time of the month, wearing a non-supportive bra, forgot to feed the cat ...) I was whisked into the piercing room (it really was like the dentists'!) and told to strip. Well, the top half, anyway. That was weird. I wasn't on a beach or getting into bath, but there I was standing semi-naked while someone stared very intently at my boobs. And although I was aware of the damage caused by breast-feeding my delightful offspring it didn't make it any more comfortable to see how exaggerated her eye movements were in order to take in both of my nipples. 'Can't you see them both in one glance? Maybe if you stand further back ...' I thought. She asked me which one I wanted done. I asked her if it mattered, aren't they both the same? Obviously not. They were once, you know. In the past. So I told her to pick whichever one was best. She chose the left. I have to agree, my left boob is far better than my right one. I think the bairns used to tug harder on the right one.

     'Look away, deep breath in ...'

     'Aaaggghhhhh f**k'

     Then it was done. She told me to look at it in the mirror. That was a bit embarrassing. I wasn't entirely sure how long to look for or what to say, but I was feeling mightily relieved it was over. I got dressed, paid and left. And as I did so I was sure I could hear a '...polishing a turd ...' being whispered behind me!

    

So, this is my very first post on my very first blog. This blog is here mainly to connect with people who want to share their reading and writing experiences with me. It's my outlet for some of my attempts at writing, particularly as part of my Open University Creative Writing course. Any comments are, of course, very welcome. And nobody need worry about offending me, as I'm thick-skinned.

And today I must start by sharing with you my latest assignment, marked and returned to me today. I was thrilled with the mark, especially considering the final sprint to meet the deadline! I honestly don't know what happened. Xmas, obviously!

Time for a Thaw

A two-hour journey down the motorway, followed by a further hour of negotiating winding slush-filled roads leads Peter Stephens to his childhood home. The bold outline of a Victorian manor house confronts him, sporting a random assortment of bow windows, chimneys and French doors that cling tightly to the red bricks. The gentle snowfall softens the effect of the sharp corners and provides a clean disguise for the garden, where suggestions of unpruned bushes and dead flower heads hint at recent neglect.

            A silhouette of a head and shoulders appears in the window of the leathery room to the left of the front door. The dancing orange and black shapes revive that memory of his father, framed by the fierce fire, confessing his sins to his gathered family, all wilting like the cut flowers on his desk.

            Peter sits behind his steering wheel, removing his leather gloves one finger at a time. He retrieves his mobile phone from its holster on the dashboard. Its glowing screen reveals an image of Georgie, his teenage son, taken at the moment between surprise and disgust. He moves his finger against the screen to reveal a message:

‘Thinking of u. Call me. Richard x.’

With a renewed sense of purpose, Peter pockets the phone, picks up his battered satchel and steps out of the car.

Entering the vanilla-scented atmosphere of the kitchen, Peter can hear Jennifer’s loud whispers, occasionally breaking into louder exclamations:

‘God, I hope Pete gets here soon. I can just see him using this weather as an excuse to call it off. I want those two over this feud once and for all. Daddy’s driving me nuts. I’m worried about him.’

He peers around the corner and sees Jennifer squashing the phone between her shoulder and chin as she lifts a tray of hot muffins out of the oven, sliding them onto a wire rack, alongside a round sponge cake.

            ‘Why, Matt, what do you know? Has Pete told you something?’

She opens and closes cupboard doors, finally finding a jar of fine white sugar in the central island.

‘Yes, I know exactly how long it’s been. Twenty years. You don’t need to tell me. I just don’t want him to cancel, or turn up and then leave again with things, well, not resolved. Christ, mummy’s not been gone five minutes and this place is like a disaster zone. I mean, why would anyone want to move all the ingredients around?’

            Peter wonders whether it would be better to leave the kitchen and reenter noisily when Jennifer crawls into the bowels of a large cupboard, returning with a jar of cake decorations.

            ‘I know, I know. Let’s just hope that things take a turn for the better after today. After the prodigal bloody son has returned.’

            Whilst the conversation is unfolding, presumably with their other sibling, Matthew, Peter glances around the large kitchen, absorbing the changes. The 1980s functional units and electric oven have been replaced by rather heavy looking Victorian pieces, probably removed decades earlier in the search for a convenient and practical kitchen, only to be reinstated when the fashion for form over function sent hoards of nostalgic people to the reclamation yards.

            The serving hatch through to the dining room had gone, with a vast pine dresser now claiming the entire wall. Peter takes in the array of cards from well-wishers squashed onto each shelf, reminding him of his own callousness. Of course, he had already begun to see the futility of his exile, but the simple vision of these cards shocks him at the ease with which he has held onto his fathers’ mistakes well beyond their use-by date.

            Finally, slightly red-faced, either from the heat or the realisation that she’s been overheard, Jennifer exclaims:

            ‘Pete. How long… Oh dear. Why didn’t you say? How are you?’

Jennifer drops the phone into her apron pocket and pulls her brother into a rough embrace. He drops a dry kiss on the top of her head before removing her arms and striding to the sink. Peter knows that she will think he’s angry over her harsh words, but he struggles now with the truth of her emotions as well as his own. He removes an upturned glass from the draining board and fills it with water. He takes a few tiny sips, then drops the glass into the bottom of the sink.

            ‘Kids OK, Jen?’

            ‘Yes, Peter, they’re fine.’

            ‘Sorry I couldn’t make James’s 16^th. I did mean to. I even convinced Georgie, too. Something came up, work stuff. I should have let you know.’

            ‘Izzy lets you see him now, does she?’ A hint of a sneer creeps into Jennifer’s voice. ‘To be honest Peter, we didn’t honestly expect you there. It’s not often you keep your promises. To us, anyway.’

            ‘Sorry, Jen. I wish I was a better uncle. And brother.’

            Jennifer releases a guttural snort, loaded with cynicism. ‘Just be gentle on Daddy. He’s taken Mummy’s death pretty hard.’

            Peter nods and looks down at the satchel in his hand, tightening his jaw. Not quite able to look back at Jen, he heads out of the kitchen and towards the closed door of the study.

            Peter finds his father in his courtroom pose, five years beyond his late retirement, striding back and forth along the dark patterned carpet, hands clasped behind his back. Despite the heat of the study the old man is wearing an old tweed sportscoat, threads breaking free around the lapels. The leather elbow patches appear worn, as does the seat of his maroon corduroy trousers. His dark grey hair curls over the back of his checked shirt, unkempt but clean.

            At the whoosh and click of the door being opened and closed, Bob spins on his right heel to face him. He takes a step forward, pauses, then steps back.

            ‘Son. Glad you’re here. I’ve been waiting.’

            ‘Sorry. Delays. Weather. Work stuff. You know.’

            They each look at the other, inspecting around the edges, avoiding eye contact. Peter wants to see the controlling ogre of years ago, to justify his anger and his absence. Instead, he sees a grief-stricken old man.

‘How’s Georgie?

‘He’s fine. Enjoying school. He’s a bright boy. He’s with Izzy this weekend.’

‘You two not patched up your differences then? Jen tells me you work with her brother. Richard, wasn’t it?’

Peter notices his father’s eyes drift to the bag in his left hand and feels surprised at how little has filtered through to him from Jennifer and Matthew. Peter is still unsure what they know from Izzy or Georgie. Or even through insidious gossip.

‘No. It’s … well, it’s complicated. Izzy and I were over years ago.’

‘Of course. Sorry to ask. Send my love.’

‘I will. I wasn’t sure whether or not you were still in touch with her.’

‘No, Peter. I haven’t heard from her for years. Since that night she came round here looking for you. I don’t know why she thought she’d find you here. You know I never believed her accusations. That’s why I thought you might have got back together. Couldn’t forgive her, eh?’

            ‘There was nothing to forgive.’ Peter leans the satchel on the back of a tall leather armchair and pushes the buttons to release the catches. ‘I wanted to show you some pictures. Of the people in my life. Easier than words … explanations.’

            ‘Quite right, Son. Explanations never did me any good. Not with you, anyway. You thought too highly of me to start with. I brought myself too low …’

            ‘At least you faced up to your mistakes. I realise now how hard that must have been.’

            Peter sees his father’s head dip slightly in acknowledgement then he looks greedily to the leather bag, still containing the evidence of his happiness and his shame.

            ‘You’ve got yourself another woman now, eh? Come on, let’s sit. Dry off in front of the fire. You’re still damp.’

            Peter hesitates, deciding whether the possibility of becoming trapped inside the wings of the leather chair is such a good idea. He gives a small nod of acquiescence then takes a seat opposite his father in front of the fighting flames.

            ‘Son, will you allow me to talk about what happened? I want to put things right with you. That’s what I’ve wanted all along. Twenty years is a long punishment. But you came today. For your mother, I know, but you’re here and I’d like to think we can build some bridges.’

            Peter hopes that there is a bridge long enough to cross the divide which he is about to widen.

            ‘Dad, you’re right. Twenty years is a long time. I still struggle with what you did. And what you got away with.’ He stops speaking and bites his lip, shaking his head as he lowers his chin to his chest.

            ‘But what could I have done differently? It was a brief affair.’

            ‘Dad …’

            ‘No, please, let me finish. It was brief and I felt so guilty. Your mother was so trusting, so good. She was at home with two toddlers and a baby, whilst I was drinking, socialising …’ Bob gazes deeply into the fire, the flames making bright dancing patterns on his forehead.

            ‘I wanted to make things right with … Maia.’ Their hooded stares meet for an instant, then Peter looks away. ‘I didn’t know she existed for a long time. And when I found out it was much later. She had a family, she seemed settled. I wish I’d done things differently. Dammit I wish I’d never had the affair!’

                        Peter and his father remain silent until Bob emits a rasping cough behind a cupped hand, the legacy of a thousand cigars. He feels his father’s eyes exploring his face, looking for an opening.

            ‘You’re still practising, I suppose?’

            Peter is taken aback by the question, surprised by his father’s lack of information, or by his ability to act convincingly naïve. He realises that his explanations have become confessions, revelations.

            ‘No, Dad, I’m not. Look, I forgive you. I forgave you years ago. I’m sorry I never told you that. And sorry for so much more besides.’ Peter refastens the satchel, aware of his father staring at the clasps. ‘It was a long drive today and I’m shattered. I think we should leave it there. For now. Let’s have some tea with Jenny. She’ll be climbing the walls by now.’

            Peter follows his father to the kitchen. Jennifer is sitting on a barstool at the island, spectacles balancing on her nose, pen hovering over a newspaper. She looks up, her gaze flicking from her brother to her father and back. She slides from the stool to make tea and slice cake as the two men fall into the patched sofas around the brick inglenook.

            ‘Just a quick cup for me, Jen. Then I’ll be off. Got to get back before the snow really settles.’

            ‘You’re not staying? Are things OK?’

            ‘We’ll see, Sis. It’s early days.’

            ‘Dad?’ Jennifer’s creased brow shouts of her incomprehension at what she had obviously hoped would be a happy reunion. ‘For Heavens’ sake, Pete, why can’t your silly grudge just end? Have you not sulked for long enough?’

            ‘Jennifer, its fine. We talked and that’s fine, for now.’

‘No, Dad, it’s not. Has Mummy’s death not shown you that life doesn’t go on forever? If you can’t get over this now, Pete, you never will.’

‘Look, Jen, I wish it were that simple. I have some things of my own that I want to share with you. Mistakes, secrets.’

Peter pulls in a large breath as awareness dawns that the time has come for some truths. ‘Dad, I refused for years to accept what you did, but now I’m asking you to forgive me. And not just for one mistake. Lots. I’m fine now, Dad. But I’ve hurt people.’

Peter opens the satchel and shuffles various items, trying to decide what to reveal and how.

‘Peter, you’re my Son and I already forgive you. You don’t need to tell me anything that you don’t want to. My love for you isn’t dependent on anything.’

A cool wave of relief is quickly supplanted by guilt.

‘This … stuff. It needs to come out. Secrets destroy lives. That’s what I’ve learnt, Jen.’

Peter removes a bundle of papers and photographs from his bag and places them on his knee. Without looking up he starts to blurt out his series of admissions.

‘First of all, Dad, you should know I’m gay. You mentioned Izzy’s brother, Richard. We’re partners. Lovers. This is him …’ Peter produces a picture of a man with a smooth face, pink cheeks and caramel hair, bearing more than a passing resemblance to Georgie.

Quickly, and without looking up, Peter produces a yellowing newspaper.

‘And my legal career? I was disbarred. Confidentiality, conflict of interest. It’s all in there …’ Peter gestures at the newspaper. ‘I thought I was doing the honourable thing, but Izzy couldn’t bear the shame. Then the affair with Richard. Her own brother. She moved away with Georgie and I didn’t see either of them for years. She broke contact with her family, so nobody knew where they were. Or so they said.’

The three adults talk for hours, whilst the snow creeps up the window and the fires in the study and the inglenook dwindle to no more than glowing embers.

2248 words