Ramblings of a Disorientated Mind

You know, sometimes I think there ought to be a ‘Writers Anonymous’. Like the one for drunks, but for writers. I bet you’re wondering why I’m going on about this, well, Hi! My name is Alexis and I’m having a problem writing. Ah, I can see it now;
“And what is your problem, dear?” a 60ish woman would ask me from the front row. Her hair would be white and she’s dressed in a turquoise skirt-suit and has a silk scarf of the same colour draped loosely around her neck. I bet she writes soppy romance crap, I would think.
“I can’t think of any ideas.” I would reply, and embarrassedly glance down at my clasped hands. “At least,” I continue. “Not good one’s and never through to the end.”
“Well, now dear. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all have some problem or other, or we wouldn’t be here!” She would give a little titter and glance round at the others. And I would stand there, my shame and embarasment burning holes in the ground, and I would think, Yeah, thanks a lot lady.

But, of course, there is no Writers Anonymous, and I’m still stuck with my problem. For possibly the hundreth time today I huff in despair and hit my keyboard in discust. My mug’s empty I notice, so I rise to make more tea.

‘Relax’ they’d said, ‘Quit stressing so much. Just free your mind!’ So I tried, I really did, and what was the net result? A lot of clean laundry, an uber tidy appartment [not a dust mote in sight], one complet cross-stich and a slightly more toned body.
Yeah. It didn’t work. Last time I listen to them. Fuckers.

Okay, so this attitude isn’t really getting me anywhere, so I sit down again to type the plot for my next assignment:

Amanda Schroeder, a single 20-something German-American, woman, receives a mysterious letter. It asks her to meet the author [the ever elusive 'Anon'] in a local graveyard, as they have something they believe she would be interested in. Intrigued and against her better judgement she goes,
She arrives in the dead of night, to find a man waiting for her-

I erase the whole passage. What the hell was I thinking! What’s he going to show her, his dick? Yeah, really clever. Godsdamnit! I put my head in my hands. I’m so close to tears right now it’s not true. Why why why can’t I think of anything decent? How am I supposed to get rid of this mental block? God, I’m so pathetic.

And again, for what feels like the thousandth time, I give myself a mental slap. I won’t get anywhere in this state. I rise to the sound of the kettle boiling, and make tea. The mundane activities of pouring water, adding milk and sugar, and stirring, help bring me back from the edge of despair.

I take my tea out on to the balcony and look out over the world. Wait, that makes me sound rich, like I live in a mansion by the sea or something. Let me re-phrase that. I take my tea out on to the rickety balconette thing and look out over the scummy corner of the world I, and the chavs, call home. Ah! The sweet smell of vomit and aerosol and piss; the heavenly tones of screeching harpies and bad hip-hop; the sultry lines of broken and decaying concrete. I turn back inside. God, what a hell hole.

The computer leers at me as I sit before it once more. I stare at the blank page before me, willing words to come to mind, willing an idea to form itself a plot. Nothing comes. What a fucking surprise. I turn in my chair and flick on the TV, a news channel. Nothing like a good tragedy to get the imagination fired.

By now I expect you’re probably thinking: She shouldn’t be so cynical of those who gave advice. You’re thinking: She is pushing herself to hard. You’re thinking: God, what a whiny brat. Well, you are in my head, so you’ll just have to put up with the whining. But, the other stuff? Yeah, maybe I am pushing myself, and yeah, it probably is good advice, but… this place is a hell hole, and I want out so much. I’ve put myself under enormous pressure, I know, but I hate this place. No, wait… I loathe this place, I despise it’s inhabitants, I abhor everything about it. Now maybe you understand a little better?

Something on the TV has caught my attention. It’s showing a story about a missing little girl. The pictures show a snowy scene; now a graphic of some Eastern European country; the reporter is saying something about a psychic…

I can feel the cogs of my mind casting of the rust of disuse. An idea is starting to blossom like the first daffodil of spring. Brain going full tilt, I turn back to my now cowering machine, and begin to type…

☮&♥

“Hey Sal, it’s eleven o’clock. You going home or what?” the landlord yelled from where he was washing down the bar. Sally looked with disgust at the rain.
“Have you seen it out there?” she called back over her shoulder. “It’s pissing it down!” The landlord stopped and looked up across the brightly lit bar at the tall blond.
“What d’you want me to do about it?” he asked tersely. “You can’t sleep here.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Sally muttered. “I’m just sayin’ is all.” Sally pulled her coat further around herself and sighed. “G’night then.”
“Good night.” He responded, watching the slight girl disappear into the rain soaked night.

As Sally walked down the high street to towards the car park and her car, she shivered. Not only was there the heavy downpour, but it was cold and she only had a small jacket over her barmaid outfit. She glanced around. It was strange seeing the town deserted like this; usually there where a few brave souls, or at least alcoholics, wandering about, but she seemed to be the only one out tonight. Or was she?
Sally stopped and turned around. She’d been sure there had been foot steps behind her just then. Suddenly the wind gusted up, sending a spattering of rain into her face. She shivered again, and shook off the feeling. It wasn’t that far to her car. Not far at all. And then she could go home and have a nice hot bath. And be out of this horrible weather. And maybe she’d even make herself a hot chocolate. She still had some of those little marshmallows left, didn’t she?
Suddenly a raindrop found it’s way down the back of her neck. Sally gasped and stopped, reaching around to wipe it off. Tap, tak. Tap, tak. She froze. That was, that had been… footsteps… Wasn’t it? Sally turned again. The street behind her was empty. She turned back and carried on. It was just the rain, sounding like foot steps. She was letting her imagination run away with it’s self again. She was the only one out here. A horrible, horrible night. Why would any one else want to out tonight? All the same, she increased her pace.
As she rounded the corner of the mulitstory, Sally breathed a sigh of relief. She really was almost there. She reached for the lift button. From over head there was a rumble of thunder and the rain increased it’s relentless pummelling of the ground. She pressed the button, as a crack of lightning illuminated the stair well. She turned to look, and in that split second saw the silhouetted form of a man. The panic she’d been controlling so well broke and overwhelmed her. She gasped. Tap. Tak.
“Work, damn lift work!’ she muttered, sobbing, hitting the button. Tap. Tak. She fled, forgetting the lift. Pell-mell up the stairs. She could hardly breath – cold clawed hand of panic squeezed her chest. Tap. Tak. Out in the car park now, rain beating down around. She scrabbled for her bag, hands slippy and wet. Tap. Tak. It was closer now. Her keys, she had to find her keys! Running now, she aimed for the only car. Keys, keys, keys! Her breath coming only is gasps and sobs now, she cannonballed into the car. Where are my keys!
Bang! A heavy paw landed on her shoulder.
“Don’t kill me!” she cried.
“Sal? Why would I do that?” Sally turned to see her boss behind her. “You left your keys in the bar. I came to give them to you.” She leant back against the car and let out a huge breath as the tension melted away.
“I thought…,” she started laughing and crying at the same time. “I thought you were some psycho going to kill me. I’m sorry Boss.” The big man handed Sally her keys.
“Heh. No probs kid. Just take care.” He turned and Sally watched him walk out of view before turning back to unlock her car. A heavy hand landed on her shoulder again.
“What is it now Boss?” She asked, turning back. Another crack of lighting. A knife flashing in her vision.
A scream, the last sound to escape her mouth.

☮&♥

She’s been sitting on that bar stool for over half an hour, nursing the same drink too. Well, I’ve not seen her order another in all the time I’ve been watching. She really is a sight, you know. A vision in black, save for a scarlet ribbon ’round her neck. I’ve been studying her for that same over half-hour, and somehow I still ain’t tired of that tableaux.

She’s sitin’ on that stool, one leg over other, just resting her lower foot on the stool’s crossbar. The coat – that huge long coat – hangs down her back, a black vertical line about a foot from the floor. Her feet and legs are swathed in seemingly continuous black boots. They must be cloth, I think; they’re matte, not shiny as leather is. They’re not high heels either, a slight surprise that [I saw her come in so I know she has shorter legs than most]. My eye follows up the curve of her thigh, pausing to admire the taut but ample backside. She has a slight paunch, it’s true, but what can I say? I like my women so there’s something to hold on to.

Heh, and so we get to the chest. May as well call me a perv right here and now. She’s wearing a low top, heart shaped I think the ladies call it. Whatever – it has a plunging neckline. Plenty of cleavage showing there, if y’ catch my drift. Decent cleavage too – not like some of these whippets. May as well be boys, that much as they got. It’s funny though; for someone who seems so comfortable in that kind of attire, her skin is very pale, not exactly snowy, but not quite as sun-warmed as the rest of us.

Her coat seems thick, a wonder she still has it on, the temperature it is in here. But then maybe she doesn’t have any sleeves to that pretty top of hers – hard to tell from where I’m at. But still. Hard to see her face from here too, but I reckon she has handsome features. If the profile is anything to go by, she’ll have a cute chin, maybe an average nose – strong features, but not sharp. Too young maybe, but laughter- not worry-lines adorn the edges of her eyes. Ah but now I’m just fantasising.

Her hair, shining brown and gold in this light, might have been done up for the night – it’s been pulled back into a half-bun, a silver grip spearing and holding it in place. Wispy gold strands escape, framing her face, softening it. She seems to be gazing – mournfully maybe – down at her half-finished drink, a Martini if the glass and olive are anything to go by. Two leather gloved hands rest gently on the glass’s base, turning it occasionally. And so. The barman has called time. She does not move, yet it is time for me to retire. I wonder if she’ll be here tomorrow – to see her again would be a delight on my aged eyes…

☮&♥