Meet my good friend, Julien.

It is Friday morning, and he is off to work.As you can see, it is raining buckets right now. Luckily, his office is not so far away; it’s right around the corner, in fact. He has a perfectly feasible reason as to why his ‘documents to review’ and lunch are in a plastic bag, as opposed to the expected briefcase of his white-collar type.

Work; it’s hardly something to look forward to.

Work is the alarm rousing him from his first good sleep in days, weeks perhaps. It is still night outside; the time reads 6am.  Like anybody else, he does not want to wake from his pleasant slumber, much less drag himself from the warmth of his bed, only to eject himself into the frigid cold of the tiled, unheated bathroom.
The shower takes far too long to heat up, his extremities burn from the icy water long before it adjusts accordingly to smother him in a steamy, hot flow. So hot and steamy in fact, that he dreads with all of his might  turning the faucet off and leaving the shower, only to end up naked and once again cold in the dismal tiled bathroom.
It’s raining outside. As he’s fumbling in the clean clothes pile on the floor for socks, he realises that his grey trousers are outside, willing themselves to dry on the now drenched clothesline. Oh, fuck… so is the blazer.

Work; it’s the realisation that he must purchase some new attire to parade himself in – all he really has that is suitable is a) on the aforementioned line b) in the dirty clothes basket c) practically beyond wearing if one merely dreams of making an opinion today. It looks as though the three suits he bought on sale a year ago are just about his only option, and it is damned lucky he bought himself a new black belt to keep them from slipping too far down for public eye-consumption throughout the morning.

Juliens car was broken in to on Monday night, and unfortunately because of the hot water system failing over the weekend requiring an emergency $1200 replacement, he has not yet been able to afford to get the central locking installed on his beast. Nor has he the option to replace his [luckily] empty brief case, much less pick up groceries more extravagant than 50cent noodles, reduced-to-clear bread and pre-packaged vegetables to get him through to Thursday night.

That $1200 – it was his entire savings, plus what was budgeted of his last pay to purchase food, necessities and pay a small portion of the never-ending bills. Luckily pay day is tonight. Thursday night, 11pm, or so it seems.

Julien will be sleeping by then, with any luck. One requires a good nights sleep before confronting the all important weekend… a weekend of loneliness, solitude, and despair over his most recent misfortunes.

Only a month ago, he’d have a salvation to turn to, his lovely Keira. Keira, the belle of Juliens life… she’d have carefully caressed him, assured him that everything will indeed be okay, that it had to be – after all, it was just he and she against the big, mean world, and their bond could overcome anything life was to throw at them.

And Julien believed those words, with every ounce of his being, and more.

Only a month ago, he had fallen so desperately for this woman, head over heels if you will accept the terminology. He had been seeing his love for close to six months, simply ‘taking it slowly’ as not to dampen the situation with fear, over zealousness or intimidation. Julien and Keira: Match Made In Heaven. Everybody said so.

Six months in, Julien made his love eternal to Keira. Not with a proposal – their whimsical relationship was far too volatile for that. He simply told her that he loved her, and presented her with a pendant.  A pendant which was to accompany her late grandmothers white gold chain, that she proudly embellished her neck with.

It only took days, weeks perhaps [to be generous to the poor broken soul], for the following events to fully unfold. These are events that Julien refuses to delve into with even his closest friends… but from what we can gather they are not pretty, and he is now the pure, correct definition of lonely.

Loneliness [define] Julien Hamrow  - The handsome, well dressed, successful man that is not yet thirty. It is the beginning of August, and he has stepped off the train, making his solitary way to his work as a Communications Advisor on a dreary Thursday morning. Unseasonal rains suddenly make themselves welcome, and the roads and pedestrian paths become immediately drenched. Julien is thankful that he has his umbrella to keep him company, as people around him try in earnest to hail cabs or duck into coffee shops to escape the weather. As the streets gradually empty around him as he becomes late for work, he feels peace in his solitude, because really, who can be bothered keeping up with the hustle and bustle of everyday normality, of all of the social circumstances one is to navigate their way happily through, day after day, anyway?

Image credit to the wonderful MaRco(s).

The silence is deafening. Not a hum of an engine, creak of a pipe, or whisper breaks the eerie quiet. Lights dim slowly, monotonously, and then brighten as the little remaining power tries in vain to illuminate the straight corridors and empty rooms. A pipe swings lazily from the ceiling. The air is stagnant, frozen in a timeless slumber, waiting to be awakened. There is total silence.

A lifeless ship, spinning slowly through the vastness of space. But not alone.

A glimmer against the silky darkness is the only sign. A reflection against metal. A glowing blue ember as this new visitor approaches. Soon, the glimmer grows; a light shines upon the outer edge of the derelict, illuminating a scarred and battered shell. Paint once adorned this hulk, but has long since been sheared off by dust and rocks. A word, written along the side, can no longer be read.

The visitor edges closer and closer, slower and slower. It passes across the bow of the derelict, its huge bright eye searching, light long since forgotten caressing the cold metal. The tiny visitor lazily spirals around the nameless metal corpse. It pauses for a moment as the eye of light finds a window. The visitor peers in, but sees nothing but dust. Reluctantly, it shifts its attention away. It stops again here and there with an infinite curiosity.

The visitor moves closer, drawn towards the derelict. The two wanderers come together with an exquisite patience. The visitor continues spinning, circling, the eye of light piercing the secret corners of rust and ashes. For an aeon, the two ships stay like this, spinning around together. The visitor inches closer and closer.

Until finally they meet, metal brushing metal in an intimate kiss.

With a gasp of movement, the wanderer jerks away. The dark hulk follows it for a moment then releases its hold, gravity’s desire losing to the emptiness of space. The small ship passes its glowing eye one last time over the derelict then turns away. Thrusters fire and within moments it has gone.

The ship is once again left alone, turning end over end in a directionless expanse of nothingness.

It’s time to break the silence! Regrettably we have been a bit quiet here at Ok, to begin with… I hope you will all understand how busy life can sometimes be, and how the days just seem to mesh into one big blur. There have been vacations and numerous other excuses for our laziness – so I’d like to share something with you. This is one of my few attempts at fiction, a style of writing that has been interesting me more and more in recent times. Enjoy. :)

Dear Aaron..

Do you even remember what we shared together? Oh, the times your name has silently escaped my aching lips. I spotted you across the aisle in the hardware store today, Aaron. Picture me, please. I am standing foolishly alone, perusing the seedlings I can potentially purchase to give my balcony a small slice of life. You, on the other hand, have a power tool in your cart, and a gorgeous blonde woman under your muscular arm.

Oh, the pain. I became uncomfortable inside my skin, even moreso as your eyes scanned the aisle and slid right over me; not even the slightest sense of recognition. September 25, Aaron, it was only four months ago. Don’t you remember?

I was dressed to kill that evening, the evening of a girlfriends hen’s night. Somehow, I had wrapped my short and entirely untoned, pale body into a torquise halter neck evening dress that even made me look okay – at least combined with the killer Louis Vitton stilettos that had been hiding in the depths of my cupboard for so long. Even before our drunken bodies found each other on the steamy, crowded dancefloor, I had promised myself that I was going to do something completely different and have a fun night out, for once in my life. It was working out quite nicely, many thanks to my fantastic friends Bacardi 151 and Lemonade. However, keeping up with my party animal girlfriends certainly proved to take its toll on my sense and sensibility.

You bumped into me, Aaron, and together we spilt your beer onto the already stained floor. I fell in love with you as you smiled, and apologised. You smiled at me. Your alluring brown eyes, and your sexy mouth, all perfectly enclosed in that ever handsome face that is you. I knew you were the one, even before I took the time to check you out, so to speak – and fully appreciate your tall, lean athletic physique, all dressed up in a pinstriped suit. Heaven in a human.

As we began talking, the kind of small talk that happens in broken shouts over 120 decibels of typical dance music, you told me that you were indeed Aaron, and you had been out for a work related dinner for something formal. Or something… I don’t remember, exactly. Bacardi and music combined with the beer you had so kindly bought me in apology may have possibly stunned my memory temporarily. But we had a mutual agreement that the music was absolutely terrible, and that the beer garden outside seemed like a much more apt place to get to know each other.

I do remember noticing the size of your pupils, and the way you couldn’t seem to resist chewing down on your bottom lip when you weren’t talking. You talked a lot, even more than my work colleague Jim, who annoys me to no end. But your conversation seemed as intense as it did shallow, and combined with the sweat lurking on your handsome brow turned me on even more. I fell in love with you, Aaron. Perhaps I was too drunk to have a concern; I just knew you had to be my man.

Frumpy old Bella, nearly 30 years old and without a proper life to call her own, or a happiness that she can readily succumb to. All she does is work her boring accountant job, cook herself boring, bland dinners, tune into Neighbours at 6.30pm and then walk her six year old Collie cross for an hour every evening. She doesn’t even own a car. What could you ever find interesting in her?

I have to tell you one thing, though: Beer and Bella do not like each other. Do you remember how I vomited on the ground between us? Soon after, that angry bouncer picked me up under my arms, and kindly but firmly escorted me out of the bar and into a taxi. Freaking god damn! I screamed. The love of my life is in there and I’m going home?!

The next morning arrived with a horrible fever and a pounding headache. I must shamefully admit that it took me a few minutes to remember you, Aaron, and for this I apologise profusely. I realised exactly why I fell in love with you though; my beer glazed memories reminded me just how gorgeous you really were, and I knew for certain that you gave me the time of day in that horrible, nasty youth-filled nightclub. You sat with me, you bought me a drink… you even held my hand!

Do you realise, Aaron, that I went out again last weekend, to the same bar, and you weren’t there? I had my eyes open for you all night. There was absolutely nobody I can compare to you – the only person who looked sideways at me was the lady who helped me up after I’d tripped over a bottle and put a very embarassing run in my tights. I could only stomach two fruity vodkas before I didn’t want to be out anymore, and I sauntered home at a very mere, very weak 11pm. Old Bella, she fails again.

You and your hot blonde mistress make your way past the seedlings section of the asile – past me. Past stupid old lovesick Bella. I watch the back of you as you make your way to the checkout, and ever so gently kiss your lady friend on the cheek as she pays for your big, mean and sexy power tool. We shared something, Aaron. I don’t care that I am unaware of your last name, and that you no longer seem to have any idea that I exist in this world… we shared something beautiful that horrendous evening four months ago. Something in your plate-sized black pupils told my alcohol-addled brain that was happening. And then all of a sudden, it wasn’t…

And poor old Bella no longer existed.

Aaron, it was my first night out in almost three years, and it was only because of the ever persistent begging and pleading of my friends… who really aren’t my friends. Thinking about it now, as I gaze at you walking calmly through the hardware stores exit point, I realise that these girls are just young and ripe party animals who keep me around to remind them of their eternal youth – who wants to end up as old and haggard as Bella, anyway? I am going out again, tonight. This time with an older, more mature girl from work. Please come out, my love. I would kill myself if only it meant I could see you again.

Forlornly, I chose the coriander seeds. I don’t even eat coriander. But maybe you do, Aaron. Perhaps, maybe, just possibly, I could conjure an amazing Indian curry and use these very coriander seeds to fertilize its very essence for you, and even your bombshell, if I must?

Please remember me, someday. I love you, Aaron, Mister love of my life.

xxoo Bella -
Jan 29.