Also..

Since this is the "Creative Writing" / english blog, I'm going to post my finished story. comments always welcome. (i'll do the poem some other day)
here it is..

[untitled]

The funeral was... well, a funeral. It was all that she had expected, and perhaps more. Throughout the whole, her hands moved. Never still, they twisted within themselves, they tore the damp tissue in them to shreds. In private moments, they vaguely re-applied make-up to water streaked eyes and cheeks. They fidgeted with her overlong hair. They fretted at the hem of her skirt. They were never still.

Until, for four or five seconds, they paused, hung by her sides and rested.

Whilst the casket was lowered.

Then they moved, a little twitch of her fingers and they (equipped with another ever-present hanky) were at her nose.


Looking at her, you would see nothing remarkable. She merely was. At that time there was nothing to distinguish her. Nothing that could mark her out as special, nothing to make her more important or better than the person lying in the casket. Nothing in her being would allow her to forget the cruel hand that nature had dealt her friend, the friendship that had endured throughout their lives had been killed and that fuelled her grief, the restlessness in her hands was her only outlet, the physical sign of her inner turmoil.


Behind the hands, there was a story. There always is a story. Every movement commemorated one already past. An entire lifetime was lived out in these movements.
The hands moved for memories, for moments when two small girls, the best of friends, played with their Barbies.

They moved for the first taste of independence, the same girls, only taller, older, riding a bus together into town.

They fidgeted for forgotten conversations, long drunk coffee cups, for worn-out jeans.

For all these memories, and for more, they convulsed and clutched at each other. Still, they were together, while the friends were not.


Growing up had become a myriad of images, overlapping, snapshots in time, of an angelic-looking blonde girl and her partner in crime. They became expert at smuggling strawberries past the scales via their tummies, the result of long hot summers spent picking the ripe fruit, which slowly turned their white fingers red with juice. As the happy images of long past summers and almost forgotten sleep-overs chased through her mind, her fingers began to relax, parting, as the remembered happiness almost had her grasping for another hand.

One which now lay still.

It was this thought that had her hands springing back together, seeking each other when they could not find their lost friend.


The aftermath of the funeral was harder to bear. It was unnatural, the jollity and speed, the colours and noises of the world astounded her. How could they be so brash, heartless? She found functioning impossible. She couldn't connect. Her only refuge was in her room. In the memories and pictures, the collages and photos, the posters and mementoes that cluttered her walls. Within these four walls she found solace. She found, within herself, some more questions and realised she didn't need to know all the answers. Safe within the crowded walls, surrounded by the old comfortingness of her junk she was at peace.


Her peace didn't mean she was immune to surprises, to the shocks that her own room, her sanctuary, could spring on her. It was about a week after the funeral, after she found some quiet in herself, that she saw it. As she was sitting, reading a book, she glanced up. There, on the wall, almost obscured by a badly pinned poster, she saw, as if for the first time, the picture. The paper was unassuming, and the line drawing on it, more so. However they captivated her attention. Her eyes were drawn to it and she couldn't pull them away. The memories came flooding back and she reached out and pulled it from the wall. The Blu-Tack keeping it there gave it up reluctantly, and her fingers picked it off gently, taking the utmost care with the small picture. She unfurled her legs from beneath her and walked from her bed to the centre of the room. She placed the picture on the floor, searched her overlarge CD collection for a CD and put it on.


Fifty minutes later, she entwined her fingers sombrely, without thinking. It had become a matter of habit. The CD that was playing to itself quietly in the background finished. She barely noticed. The words and melodies hadn't been registering for the past few tracks anyway. Her left hand, with its scabby, bitten, unvarnished nails detached itself from the fingers of the right and reached tentatively for the piece of paper containing the line drawing, simplistic in style and composition, which rested by her left knee. It had taken her this long to work up the courage to work past her fears to actually look at the picture again. She gazed at the picture. Her blonde hair fell from behind her ear, some catching in the many earrings adorning her ears, and obscured her vision.
Not that it mattered. The picture, simplistic though it was, had embedded itself in her mind. A single tear slid silently down her cheek and dampened her collar.


Normally, something so small and insignificant wouldn't have the power that this scrap of paper seemed to hold over her. But this was different. This was her last memento. This was the last thing her friend had ever made for her. It was her monster. The picture wasn't flattering. It wasn't startling. It could never be called a Masterpiece, except in her head. It was imbued with celestial beauty simply because of the hands which had composed it. White hands that now rested. Forever.

Her fingers, thick and strong, curled reflexively as a multitude of thoughts scrambled through her mind. The paper crumpled. Her hands formed angry fists on her knees, rubbing at the denim as she thought about the cruel way her friend had been snatched from her.


It was while she was thinking about the picture and all that it meant to her that she remembered the letter she had written two days earlier. My angel, it began. I know that you are not here anymore, and I know that nothing I can say will bring you back again, but still I can’t help but hope. As she remembered the letter, all her anxiety came back, she found herself remembering incidents she had recalled in her letter. Do you remember that winter a couple of years ago when we went sledging? Of course you would. If you could, you wouldn’t let me forget it. I stunted your growth: I shouted and shouted at you to put your feet down, but you, the obstinate girl that you were, never would. I felt so guilty. I always thought I should have done more to help, no matter that I would have had to be superhuman, around you, that was never an obstacle. I always thought that it was my fault you broke two bones in your ankle. But it was never a curse. A blessing really, you still got to wear kids clothes. No matter, I still felt bad and always will. I wanted so badly to save you then, as I still want to save you. Even though you’re probably better off where you are. I love you.


A sound from downstairs interrupted her reverie; she glanced at her hand and realised what she had done. The picture was ruined. Irreversibly. It was crumpled and creased and her vain efforts to smooth it out were to no avail. It was done. The tears followed the track forged by the first one. Faster. Her lap, cradling the ruined picture, became damp from the rain of tears.

The ink began to run.