story.winter-soon.direct.likely.missed.pathetic.references...

'tell me a story.'
i am curled on your lap, body beside, more precise, head enfolded crossed legs. your hand strokes my head, running over stubble on my scalp, over my forehead (there is a furrow there that will get deeper as i age) and across my cheekbone, down to my jaw, and back again.

'i AM telling you a story!'
earnest expression.

'exchanging half remembered quotes is not a story,' i say, slightly smug, slightly sad, keeping it here, holding it close.

we have broken in, mid phrase, mid statement

it's like a radio, the constant static in the air as the connection moves between stations. softly
i thought it was you, but you'd lost the ability to write well.
but i sign my name, and i didn't know she liked winterson.
she doesn't, must have read it on my blog. sly laughter. sly laughter. i can hear it in the distance as they make love, and i am here on the couch, and you are telling me a story.

the couch is either lemon yellow, or pale lime. i cannot tell in the light, it is dim in here, and it flickers on and off, like a broken television.

'i could write essays, maybe? go back to uni, do a masters in obscure russian literature.'
'elizabeth, you don't know anything about russian literature.'
'it's making me hate being at work, him being there, her beside him a few levels away. he lied to me, you know. tell me a damn story.'

you tilt my chin up, and i look into your eyes for a moment and then look away, as mine fill with tears, run down my cheeks and salty tracks run into your fingers and i coil back around you like an oroborus, and my heart is my tail, and my mouth is my neck and my feet are my mouth.

you sigh.

'what about one about a princess who rides a pony to - '
'no. no fucking princesses. i cannot stand them.'

a pause. you know me well, and don't understand.

'why not?' a gentle soft question.
'i was once a princess and i couldn't get the kitten out of the tree. i had no magic, and he didn't realise, and i ... i couldn't get the kitten out of the tree. i wasn't his dream, you know. i wasn't his dream, and he thought i was, but that didn't make it real, and it's destined to keep happening, over and over, the story rewritten into this same ending.' i fall tighter on myself, my mouth inside my arms, over my neck, taking my skin into my liver, and trying to disappear when there is nowhere for my body to go.

you leave it. i don't know, it feels like you leave it because you don't care.

'well, what do you want a story about?'

'i want you to pick. i am scared, so scared, and i just got made into another midlife fantasy that faded rapidly out when reality touched me and turned me ugly in the face of age again, and i need to disappear in a story, just fucking tell me a fucking story.' i got quieter and quieter, the radio skipping again, i can hear a voice reading me 'waiting for godot' and i shudder and wrap my arms around my knees and put my head there. the music in the background is new order, temptation, and i never met anyone quite like you before, even if i am just your earworm now.

you pause, because you do not know what to say. your hand rests softly on my forehead (over that crease, oh god, why isn't it deeper, why did this stupid number steal this from me, this stupid lack of years all slipping back, i was nine when the x-files started. in year 4 at school. i was scared of nuclear bombs, and cried myself to sleep and was scared of the dark, while somewhere far away, a woman was pregnant with a child that one one day caused that 9 year old to change her phone number, because she, the nine year old, one day would fall in love with the father, a man from far away with an angry 15 year old who wants nothing more than to make people know how angry she is. however, i was 24, not 33, and thus, it was too hard, too hard, oh there were other reasons, so many, so many, but seeing that 3344together, reminding me of when i was 12, i was so alone, i wished i was older more than anything, i could talk to people who wouldn't laugh at my big words. and when i was 17, and my first boyfriend was 28, my heart broke because i was in a school uniform, and he had two kids. i just wanted to be in love like anyone else, you know, i just wanted to be allowed to love you and you MADE IT SO HARD just because of your time and my time and fine take her because she doesn't make you tired, because it is easy, want me to quote you, i can, you know, i can, i remembered everything because i fell down and NOW you are shying away from any love you ever had for me because i got harder, because you know how smart i am and how i flip words faster than you can form them and i scare you as well as make you tired.)

i whisper now, holding back tears.

'i am a monster, not a pony. i wreck families and lives, i tear them apart and then i get torn in turn. i make them leave their children. i make them leave their lovers. i make them i make them and then i get stood on as they run to something better. i'm the catalyst, i am the stepping stone, and then i get left behind now they are free, the crisis over, little starburst, little shiny star, oh you deserve better.'

'do you want a story?' you say.
'can you tell me a story?' i say.
'do you want me to tell me a story?' you say.

you look at me concerned. your skin is grey, fading in and out, because i cannot spin my words thick enough to make anyone real or to make anyone stay.

i pause, and admit, 'there is no substance to my stories anymore. i need someone else to tell me one for once. i suck at narrative. i just write well.'

you fade a little more, and i know i can't hold your plot together.

'you don't believe me anymore, do you mister? you don't believe in my magic.' i am sad because it is true and i know you would not admit it because you stole the magic away from me, that's why you don't want me, isn't it. you stole it and gave it to her.

'oh believe me, elizabeth. i'm telling you stories.'

and you are more transparent, and monaco plays, flickers over to internet refresh refresh, as i search for you in corners and spaces. what do you want from me? it's not how it used to be. you've taken my life away. ruining everything.
i don't know if that is about me, or about you, or about both of us.

it's me, i know, because your life is fine, with a darling heart, and arms and loving hearts around you. there is a scrap heap behind you that you want to forget about, you'll say sorry and try to fix it but i don't think you care because you are starting to get bored of me, bored of this ear worm, but not as bored of it as i am, oh god, you have no idea how much i wish this would stop ringing in my head. it softens you know, though, i think of Jule and he takes the pain away a little because, god, before you, i thought he was cruel.

i laugh and hiccup out a sob.

grey eyes, whatever colour they once had is gone, you fade a little more, you fade, i curl up more around myself, your hand slips over and through my face but you don't even see it.

'i can tell you a story,' you say, 'of a pile of bones. you hold one up, and realise it is the bone of your lover. you killed them. they were your mother and your child, your father, your aunt, your boss and your enemy. you made love to them, you killed them.'

i am not impressed with the pale and flaccid buddhist tale, and i tell you that.

you smile.

'oh trust me, elizabeth, i am telling you stories.'

i get more and more sad, as i lose you more and more, i lose you over and over again, passing through so many hands, so many hands, the crackles on the radio,
'but 15 years with her, i am not worth that, you'll forget me. you love her. i have nothing on that. she's enchanting, you are enchanted, she is enchanted. you are leaving that behind for me?'
flickers
'you left, you left your family for me?'
flickers
'you can't say it, you know you are more drawn to her type of madness. i can see it. stop telling me that you won't leave me because i am starting to believe you, i am starting, after all those months, and i know, and i KNOW that the moment i do, i lose. the moment. i. truely. trust. your. words. you will fade away. i cannot believe your story. i cannot believe you love me this much. i cannot believe that you want to be with me, forge a life with me, be my lover, make this work, nurture me, cook for me. i cannot believe it when you say you want a little house with me. i cannot believe it when you say you are sad that i want to buy one without you. that was a LIE, for fucks, all i wanted was to be in your arms, i just knew the moment i submitted, the moment i reached up, hands in the air, surrendered, white flag, white flag, the story would end, and you would go, go to her, go to her and the lies you told me about loving me more than you could ever love another, and take her in your arms when you made me believe in you, reading to me, and now you read to her, and i cannot sleep, reading to me, telling me stories, telling me goddamn stories, and now i cannot sleep, and you read her stories, and you promised me. you promised me, and i got nothing. i get no stories. you won't even speak to me of anything let alone stories now.'

and you are gone, and i am on this couch, is it peach, is it pink, is it yellow..? oh god, i just close my eyes and feel the softness, i lean my head back when i sit up and close my eyes and if you walk into the room and see me sitting on your couch that is how i will be. my neck hooked over the back of the seat, the cushioned below me tainted, wrapped in a lime green or yellow faded blanket, stained, my eyes closed.

story.

there once was a clockwork girl who lived in a cold little street, in a cold little house, in a cold little city, with two bunnies, and lots of books. she came from far away, from a big sunny house, that she didn’t like, on a big sunny street in a big sunny city that she loved. in the big sunny city, she had lots and lots of friends who would help her turn her key - two very tall beautiful artists; a sister who was half cat, half person, and half in this world and half out; a lizard queen with beautiful animals and a beautiful heart; a very tall man who told wonderful stories and made gentle music while wearing a hat; a lady who made mechanical hands and feet; and more than she could even list. she loved them all very much. she was in love with a magician, though, who pulled shiny shiny jewels out of his hat, and juggled them fast. he told stories too, and danced, and sung, and she could watch him for hours. he loved her, but was not in love with her, and she knew that was ok, even if it made her cry sometimes.

then one day, the clockwork girl moved away, to the cold little street in the cold little city. her new house was much nicer - she still didn’t wash her clothes quite enough, and wasn’t very good at doing the dishes. but she started to learn, and even though the floorboards sometimes had wind blowing through them, she loved her little house more and more. she did not, however, love the little city. it was cold and lonely, and there were not many people, and dead leaves blew down the street. sunlight rained in her old home, and people held hands with strangers; here, people would stare, but never smile. she could not find the people who did chalk drawings, and she missed the magician so much more. He visited her, with strings of silk kerchiefs and colours running out of his pockets, but he didn’t love her, and never told her lies, and she still watched him and dreamed of him from afar after he left, dreaming over the letters they wrote back and forth as she cried herself to sleep back and forth the nights. her key was hard to turn all by herself with cold little fingers made of tin, but she tried, and she got better at it, day by day, twist by twist.

slowly, the clockwork girl started to get used to the cold little city. she made some friends - new friends,; a man who made fire fly; a storyteller from the middle of the earth; a minstrel who was a princess in disguise, but even she didn’t know; a dancer who entranced the world; a lady who bought skulls to life in bright colours; a movie peddler just starting to find his way; a very tall boy with a magical black cap ; a lady with colours on her arms, and two beautiful squids; a big big man who built things, with a beautiful warm heart; .... her life started to seem a little brighter, and she was learning how to walk with the ten jumpers on, and the big coat and the key moved smooth now with the help of her friends, and even by herself, for the first time ever.

the people who sent her to the little city sent her away to the middle of the earth for a little holiday, with some other people, all sitting around and drinking and meeting. while she was there, the girl met another magician. she’d seen him around, and his eyes sparkled, and she’d seen some of the magic he made. but she realized - he made things crooked, without touching them. she was enchanted. and he, enchanted with her. her key was moved, and made crooked too, but it was beautiful, and she made it fit back in, and it still worked ok, and he loved to turn it.

this magician was very different. his magic was less shiny, because he was older, but stronger, more powerful, and she sometimes didn’t even know he was doing it. sometimes, it made her want to fly, but other times, she was just sad and confused - things completely changed faster than she knew what was happening.

and even though she came back from the centre of the earth, her house was not the same. she felt like a part of her was still far away after she came back; that the magician had somehow taken it swiftly and turned it into something else. she missed being in her little house with her little bunnies that she had built herself; he didn’t like being in her house at all, because he liked his house more, even though she had to feed and love and care for her bunnies. she would say things, and then he would make them crooked too, making them sound different until she didn’t know what she had said anymore. she got scared, and confused, but she was enchanted, and he, enchanted with her, and she didn’t know how to break the magic.

sometimes, she tried to talk about it with him, but he would laugh, or pull more colourful hankies out. the girl would even call the other magician for advice, who would answer in cryptic puzzles as always, so she would sigh and turn away. when she asked her other friends, they were sometimes frustrated with her because he seemed mean from what she said; but she was enchanted with him, and wondered if her words were wrong, and didn’t paint him properly, because he was beautiful, and she needed them to see it, but she was hurting, and she needed him to see that. but she would say things, and he would slip them behind her back and move them, twisting them into balloon animals that started to look more and more like angry monsters.

the girl loved him, and tried. sometimes, there were weeks of magic, but then the balloons would burst, or the crooked thing would tilt and look scary and mean. and after a few too many things moved, the girl stopped eating. her breathing was hard. her tummy hurt.
her body felt sad and scared, and started to slow down, because she had forgotten to turn the clockwork key in her back, because she was so scared of the world. she realised that the magician had been secretly turning the key in her back, only the other way so that she stopped working properly. that is why her hands had been shaking, and she had stopped eating. she didn’t know why he did it. or how he did it. but she knew he did, and she was scared. she missed the jewels and how they shined when the magician that didn't love her made them move, because she was sometimes made sad, but never scared by him.

the girl didn’t know what to do. she wasn’t happy. she was very very sad. so sad she could not cry. so sad she wanted to hide and hide until the world went away. she was even scared to talk to the magician, because of how crooked things had gotten and how when she tried, he twisted and twisted and twisted...

the girl didn’t know what to do, so she went to bed and hoped she would wake up with the answer in her house, because she loved her little house, and her little bunnies, and she wanted to find her way home again, properly. the wind had knocked down the door, and the walls were hurting, and she needed to fix them up before she started with the magician. she needed to pull out the key, and get her friends to help her start it up again. she wanted the magician that didn't love her to travel down to her land, flightly troubadour he was, just for a story and some colours, but she would pay for that because she wanted to see him so badly, knowing him, and trusting him, and feeling safe and warm and home with him, even if he didn't love her as she loved him. but she was scared and she didn’t know what to do or how to talk to the magician. she was scared he would make her really small, like he did sometimes, and she would give in. or he would use magic to make her not care that he never made up her mind. but the way the key was turning was breaking her heart. she had no choice, but to do something.




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... the clockwork girl slept and slept, and mulled and mulled, for a hundred years. it might have only been a day, but it hurt a lot because she started to know that, even though she loved the magician who loved her, they could not be lovers any more. he turned her key as he thought he should, because where he was from, the water went down the drain differently.

she loved him, and it hurt. and she told him and they spoke and she put the pieces in her blue jigsaw puzzle when she got home.

all the hundred years, she got letters from the people who loved her flying around the world, and voices floated over the seas to make her heart sing a little soft squeaky song.

she knew he loved her and it hurt. but she wanted him to be her friend as well, still, when the sun rose up, for the next hundred years. so she told him not to turn the key anymore. not because of lack of love, but to save it, to let it grow into the love between friends which oh yes, is so much stronger for some people. he put away his magic tricks and held her little tin hands and they knew they could be friends and not lovers, and his crooked making is better for crooked people, not little clockwork girls.

and the little clockwork girl went home to her bunnies, and a jigsaw puzzle, and had little birds fly around her heart, sent by the tall beautiful artists, and read all the letters from the last hundred years, and gently kissed the ring the magician who was in love with her gave her, and patted the bird that flew around from the magician from far away who she missed and she missed them both in her heart, but knew it was time to pick up the pieces, alone and brave, with the help of her friends.



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and she thought it was finished until her heart broke.

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the little clockwork girl was sad. so so so sad that her heart fell out and she put it back in, sore and bruised and twisted out of shape. she was so so sad without the magician, much sadder than with the crooked bits.

and she realised something, silly little clockwork girl. she'd never told the magician not to turn her key the other way.

and other things, shameful things. she'd taken things from him. little diamonds and coal from another clockwork girl he was friends with. the little clockwork girl had stolen stories of them and hid them in her little cold house until they got bitter and ugly. she was a sad little clockwork, clunking miserably, sadly.

so she sat down with the magician who held those little tin hands as little tin tears fell down her face and she told him that he turned the key wrong. and that she had a box of feelings that belonged to him that she felt she had had a right to.

and then she gave the magician the box. and he held her hand and looked into her eyes and smiled. and she told him about how when he turned her key like that, it hurt, and it didn't work. and he looked sad and asked her how he could help make it better.

and so, they would. he would keep his box, and the little clockwork girl would keep trying to find all the stolen things, and she would remember to tell him when he turned the key wrong, and he would try and turn it right. and she would watch him do his tricks, and he would watch her sing little songs in the rain.

purge

i go to your door and i am holding a box for you. it is taped closed.

you open the door, and silently, i hold out the box for you to take.
"you can open it later, please, and do with it what you want. maybe, one day, we'll look through it together, and look back on today as the most magical day in the world...'

and you open it, now, taking out a knife from your pocket and cutting the tape that binds the flaps on the top of the box closed for when i carried it to your door. you say nothing, opening it, and reaching inside, moving the items within it around, inspecting some, ignoring others.

'please,' i ask, ' just take it all. that's the only thing. just don't pick out parts, and refuse to take it all because it needs all the pieces to work properly. i can't do anything with just the fragments you leave behind.'

silently, still, you reach through, pulling small shiny bits out, pulling the objects apart. i'm not sure if you are listening to me, or if you can even hear me, but just as watching you open the box hurt, watching you pull these things apart with a look of indifference on your face, it hurts more.

you dig and dig, and select about ten small cogs and bolts and hard and soft things, and you treasure them. you look at them as though they are the most beautiful things in the world. the rest of the box? you shove back at me.

'this is all i want,' you say. 'this is all i need. i can get everything else, hell, better bits, from other people. these are the only pieces i cannot find anywhere else.'

'but, fuck, it doesn't work like that! you need to take the lot.'

'don't care.' you furrow your brow, you look irritated, and i get scared that you'll give me those pieces back too, because you don't need me or want me at all. and i am desperate for you to have something, anything of me at all.

'i'll keep these things, and i will hold them so close that they imprint into my skin. if you ever try and take them back, my heart will break. i will cry to you, it will be the only time it looks as though i care, because i play games and you are a pawn, yes, and a useful one. i want to keep you on the board.'

it hurts.

'i'll kiss you goodbye, never anything else. you are no mystery, but i love you, but i don't. i'll fuck you silently, and look hurt if you try and lighten the mood, because i love you but i don't. you mean not enough to me to mean something, but you mean something. i talk in meaningless riddles so that you will never understand or know what i want because i need you, but i need you far away because you want me, and i don't want someone who wants me.'

he can look into me, because i ripped open my ribcage and there are organs, and a layer of fat, and snapped ribs displaying my heart nestles near lungs that breathe you in. it is not beautiful, there are no gentle butterflies, or fluxus manifesto breaking piano singers there. you cannot imagine and fill in the blanks of my bourgeois self, because the fleshy reality is there, and i refuse to veil it in the mystery and the seduction you crave. i will not seduce you. i cannot seduce you. you can have my secrets and the desert and the nothing and the atom and the neon lights. take them take them take them. you can rip apart the box until nothing works anymore, and i try and i try and things start beating again in other directions and then the flow of blood reverses as soon as i hear your name.

i would write these words for you, but you would never read them. so i write them and they will be read by others who would take the box like it was beautiful and the most incredible sensual thing on earth, not like some toy to scatter around. oh yes, i mean something to them, with my artlessness and my little songs and the way i sleep all day... but you, you cunt? you? you call me, voice breaking, because i needed to take them back, and my head weakened my heart weakened by my head. i'd even be satisfied with intimacy not relationship, but you even deprive me of that. if i go to lean close, or hold your hand, as i would with other friends, you pull back as though i am vile. but i call because i am in town, and you are there, eyes lidded, features too large for your face, so much movement, oh Fuck you, this is pointless, this is always pointless, i cannot get it out but every little bit helps, dual, every little bit helps.