The Golden Scissors

A barber's shop, on a quiet street, in a ancient city, a long time ago.

The proprietor was a master of his craft; the whole city knew of his prowess. His fingers, they said, moved faster than the wings of Hermes' sandals, and his scissors, sharper than any known to man, were a gift from the Gods themselves.

It was an afternoon so hot and still that heat waves were the only movement in the streets. The citizens stayed indoors, sleeping on cool stone floors. The Barber and his apprentices pressed damp rags to their foreheads. The shop was empty. This was rare, but rarer still was it to see people outside in the heat of a day like this one.

Yet out of the sweltering sunshine came a tall, gaunt woman with her head swaddled in white cloth. Sweat beaded from her skin like condensation on smooth marble. The cloth covered her whole head. It covered her eyes.

The Blind Woman said, "I am looking for He who bears the gold scissors of Hephaestus."
The Barber said, "I am He."
She nodded. "I have something to ask from you, though I fear I ask too much. For your work, you will be handsomely recompensed."
The Barber said, "What is it that I can do for you?" for he could not fathom that it could possibly be so difficult.
The Blind Woman said, "First, your apprentices must leave. They must not come back until we are finished."
The Barber nodded to the boys. They shuffled out, reluctantly, into the hot street, staring at the Blind Woman in bemusement. Then they were gone.
She continued. "I want you to cut my hair. But you must use the gold scissors, and you must only look at me through a mirror. That is very important. You must not look at my hair, and you must be very careful when you cut it."
The Barber responded, "Of course," though his face betrayed the questions he was plagued with. She sensed this.
"Do not be afraid. But once I remove the cloth from my head, you must work quickly and until the job is complete. You will be well rewarded."

The Barber sat her down on a wooden chair, facing a large mirror. He took the golden scissors in his hand.  The Blind Woman began to unravel the cloth. "Remember, look not at me, nor my hair, but at my reflection. Your life depends on it." With that, the Barber saw why her hair had been hidden, and her eyes.

The Woman's eyes were tight shut, but she was not blind. And her hair was made of live snakes.

Medusa, they called her. Medusa.

Had the Barber any fear, he betrayed it not. He kept his gaze fixed on the glass. His hands were steady. And though the snakes writhed and snapped, he looked not into their eyes, nor did he succumb to their venom. Eyes on the mirror, his fingers gently took the snakes, one by one, and with scissors forged by Zeus's blacksmith, they were decapitated, deftly. Blood oozed from their open necks and splashed onto the pale stone.

When he was finished, The Barber wiped the blood tenderly from the Woman's neck. Then he saw the tracks of tears that had rolled down her checks. He saw the spot of blood on her lip from where she'd bitten down in silent agony.

 "Open your eyes," he said.

She opened them, slowly, wincing at the bright light from the street outside. In the mirror he met her gaze, and she turned him not into stone. Her eyes were full of pain and sadness. His hand rested on her shoulder. There must be no soul in the world lonelier than she, he thought. She who turns all those she sees into stone.

"Thank you," she said, tears flowing from her eyes, closed once more. She stood and wrapped her head back up in the long shroud of cloth. From her dress she drew a small sack, heavy with gold pieces, and pressed it into his hand.

"No," said the Barber. "These scissors were gifted to me by the Gods. It is they whom you should recompense. Take this bag to the temple that it may be an offering."

The Woman smiled through her tears, thanked him once more, and left the shop.

After she had gone, the Barber, smiling, turned to sweep the snakes heads from the floor.

In their place were emeralds, glinting in a dark pool of blood.

Sky Green

When I woke up this morning, the sky was the colour of thin slices of cucumber. I drifted in and out of sleep; it deepened into pistachio ice-cream and then ripened to avocado as the sun spread out its rays. By the time I had dressed and stepped into the street, the whole sky was green like a sunlit lawn. Its colour poured into everything and got trapped in puddles and car windows. People walked around with their heads in the air, arms held above their heads with Blackberries and Canons. People stubbed their toes on curbs and walked into signposts and each other, so mesmerised they were by this sky the colour of golden delicious apples.

As the sun set, the sky glowed like fireflies, and copper salts in Bunsen burners, and light falling through leaves in a deep dark forest. Twilight was like the head of a Mallard duck, and as night fell, we dreamt of wine bottles and emeralds, and sports cars in British Racing Green.

The Heart Thief.

I don't tend to remember them.
I remember her because she was beautiful.
I remember the scent of her perfume rising up into my nostrils as I slid my fingers into her handbag. It smelt like dark cinemas and parks on summer evenings. It smelt like almost-clean bed sheets; it smelt like a paper bag that once held oven-fresh bread. I froze, my fingers around the soft leather of her purse, and I nearly faltered, nearly lifted my hand away empty, an arcade claw devoid of its prize. But I have always been one to finish what I've started, so I seized the purse and slipped away, unnoticed, into the crowd.

Later I lay on my bed determining which of seven watches was the most valuable and whether I could get away with selling an iPod with "To Declan, love Mum & Dad xxx" engraved into the back. Doubtful. Then I remembered the purse; I could feel its gentle pressure, held tight against my thigh. Beige leather with a gold clasp; I opened it and there she was, her beauty framed in fuzzy passport photos on varying pieces of plastic. Identification, membership, loyalty. Her name emblazoned on everything, letters printed or embossed like elegant Braille. Photos of her family. £22.67 and a £5 Boots voucher. A Nando's card with seven stamps. Receipts and tube tickets. Remorse welled up, wet and acrid; I pushed it out with a sigh like the crashing of waves. An idea formed, little pieces of broken shell which fell together as the remorse wave eased back down the shoreline.

I sold my watches and used the money for a haircut and a new suit. I trimmed my beard, I scrubbed under my fingernails and I splashed on some aftershave, and all the while I could think only of the smell of her, the way her hair fell down her back, the way her thin bra strap had slipped down under the handles of her bag. The way I had simply reached inside and taken her treasure, soft and intimate.

Took the Circle line 4 stops and walked a few blocks. Found myself outside a magnolia coloured door with palms covered in sweat. The purse in my pocket, pressing up against my leg. I knocked brusquely. Seconds passed, my heartbeat counted them out loud. Then she opened the door to a cruel sea-fiend with the scent of his prey in his gills but all she saw was a well dressed young man, smiling nervously.

"Hello."
"Hello."

I asked if her name was her name, though of course I knew that it was.
"Yes." Uneasiness hidden by an expectant smile.
"Well," and I explained that I'd found her purse on the tube, and that the money was gone so perhaps she'd been robbed, but that it seemed like all her cards had been left alone, and I made a small joke about how thoughtful modern pickpockets were, and then explained that I saw her address and knew where it was as I used to live nearby, and thought I'd just pop round and bring it back to her.
Her face had long since lit up with one thousand suns of happiness; her beauty and her gratitude overwhelmed me. She thanked me with sincerity. God she was lovely. And the remorse washed back up the shoreline carrying foaming, shameful flotsam but there she was, this mermaid of loveliness, floating there, smiling at me from the deep.
"I don't know how I can repay you," she said. "I can't offer you a cash reward anyway!" and her laugh burbled like sun-filled rock pools, by God she was lovely.

"You could invite me in for a cup of tea, and I'll call it even." And I turned my eyes to mirrors to shoot her back her sunshine, her beauty, so she'd trust me. So she wouldn't see into my fathomless black soul.
She laughed and said, well, that sounds fair, and I followed her in, the smell of her perfume like a hook through my septum, a scent so beautiful it hurt.

The magnolia door shut behind us.
Within minutes she held my heart in her hand, like a soft leather purse.

The Ten Ways I Didn't Die Today

The first was when I
woke from sleep,
steady heartbeat,
breathing deep.

Two was with the
razor in the shower.
I didn't slip and faint
and quietly bleed for hours.

The third, at breakfast,
when I did not choke
on Clementine and,
gasping, slowly croak.

Fourth, I took the
stairs one at a time;
I didn't slip and fall
and break my spine.

Outside I fifthly
did not tread
in dog shit, fall
and crack my head.

Six was when
I let the cars go past
before I crossed the road;
by God! They're fast.

The seventh was the dog
that didn't bite me,
and didn't look too rabid,
though he might be.

The eighth crept up behind me,
as though to end my life
but then he didn't stab me,
as he didn't have a knife.

Nine the cigarette which,
Unlike mother said,
didn't harm me all that much;
I didn't drop down dead.

And number ten the blood clot
which, rising from the dark,
did nothing, and broke down
before it reached my heart.

Nathracha

In my dream I
left a dreary church
and walked out into the
dark graveyard.
As I slid from the pew,
my Grandmother turned,
and tutted.

In the graveyard I walked
up a grey gravel
path. The grass on
each side was long
and damp,
and in the grass were
snakes.

My legs grew weak
as might a newborn
foal's. I feared
movement, lest they
be drawn towards me
as I moved away,
like plastic bags
and jellyfish that
drift in the bay.

And sure enough I'd
stepped but an inch
when a long thin fellow came
at me with his mouse-trap
mouth. I threw my shoes
(which I'd been carrying)
and ran away.

Back in the Church the
air was still and quiet,
my shoeless feet were
raw against the
cold stone.
No one noticed me
come in; I felt
alone.

When I woke
I felt betrayed;
I thought the snakes
had all been chased
into the sea.

Oh, Saint Patrick!
You have forsaken me.

The Camel Who Loved Smoking

There once was a Camel who liked to smoke. As a young'un he was sold to some wild Arabs and they let him finish their rollies. The first time he just chewed up the butt, but after that he learnt that chewing burning tobacco hurts quite a lot. Eventually, he became quite the smoker. His owners thought it a fine novelty and let him puff on their hookah (his favourite flavour was double apple although he was quite partial to passion fruit). He got really good at blowing smoke rings, and lots of tourists paid to watch him smoke their Dunhills and Marlborough Reds. A Russian Oligarch gave him a cigar which went down a treat. Some Swedish hippies rubbed snuff on his gums and that he did not like so much. It tasted like the rim of an old man's hat.

The Camel slowly became addicted to cigarettes. He developed a pack a day habit, and his cough got worse and worse. He always stank of tobacco and his teeth started to get all yellowy. When he didn't have his morning fag he would get grumpy and refuse to let fat German ladies on his back. He couldn't carry them very far anyway, because his lungs were so full of tar.

The Camel kept up his putrid habit for a long while, for he was a proper addict and couldn't quit even if he'd wanted to. His owners started getting sick of him, he kept stinking up their tents and coughing up brown phlegm onto their nice white robes.

Eventually, they took him to an NHS stop smoking clinic, where a nice nurse gave him some Nicorette patches. He stuck one on his face like Nelly and looked pretty fly. It gave him a bit of a rush for a bit, but he still craved a smoke. Too bad for him he didn't have hands. Have you ever seen a camel try to roll himself a cigarette? It looks a bit like a camel stamping repeatedly on a tobacco packet 'til it bursts and the tobacco gets sand all over it. Bet you've never seen a camel light up a cigarette, either - it looks like a camel crushing a lighter into little plastic shards.

So, his owners stopped giving him cigarettes, and stuck on his patches every couple of hours, and although the Camel was pretty grouchy at first, he'd soon given up his nasty habit. Well done, Camel! Thanks, NHS.

Une Auditrice

I'm sitting in an attic watching two boys make music. I'm cross-legged and quiet in the corner on an old piece of carpet; they tower above me like giants, their faces lit up from below by a golden halogen lamp, their hair glowing faintly from a dusty Velux behind them. The sound is cacophonous, apocalyptic; the screeching amp permeates my eardrums whilst the battered blue drums pound out a heartbeat out of synch with my own. Their concentration is pure and all-consuming; I am not there. My silence is absolute. They are enthralled and so am I. I could sit for hours and bathe in their noise. I could sit for hours watching the fine bones move under the skin of their hands like the keys of a piano. Watching the cymbals open and close like clapping hands, watching the errant ends of guitar strings quiver in the air like a cat's whiskers. The sound envelops me whole. I feel it through my whole body.

I am always the listener, a quiet watcher. A watcher of men. Sat on the ground watching thumbs tap controllers and swivel joysticks, eyes fixed on screens split into two, or four, and no quarter is mine. I have spent countless hours watching boys play SNES and PES, Sega, Supermario, PS3, WWE, COD. Yearning for the controller but, when once in a blue moon it's passed my way, politely declining. Watching boys on the street on skateboards, bikes and rollerblades. Watching boys playing football in gardens and on TV. Watching boys play rugby and cricket, shoot bb-guns and catapaults. Watching boys fix things, dig things, break things. Make fire. Change gear, flick the indicator, check the wing-mirror. Watching bands play on stage; watching two boys play in an attic.

It seems to be a recurring pattern. Is it just me? Or is it inherent, perpetual, an experience shared by all girls who, by choice or by chance, live their lives surrounded by boys and brothers. Have I chosen this? All the neighbourhood kids were male, by chance; but it was I who chose not to stay inside with my sister. I have chosen this, this passive role. A female accomplice, an assistant to boys building, playing, creating. A side-kick. Laughing at their jokes and being warmed by their cameraderie. Admiring the quiet male love that rests between them, unspoken.

 Amongst them, I too am unspoken. And I don't mind. Amongst girls my lips run too fast, I crow too loud, say too much. Nerves, showiness, a desire to fit in. Amongst boys there's no need; I don't fit in but rest on the periphery, quiet, content. Myself. A wallflower, head slowly nodding in time to the beat of a snare drum, petals tremouring in electric waves of sound.

In the attic I'm watching two boys play music. I play no part in this. I do not feel left out. No. I am privy to this private performance. They are playing just for me. Audience implies a large group of people, no? What is the singular, feminine form? An auditor? An auditrice? I am this. This is what I am.