Tagged: story

Trempez vos orteils dans l’eau (Dip your toes in the water)

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“Dip your toes in the water” she spoke, almost a whisper, like a prayer to a mere mortal. The warm July wind hummed across the the Cote d’Azur, singing softly through the trees. He stared pensively to the blue, hesitant to offer any response. Still, she prayed once more:
“Dip, just try it, dip, dip your toes in the water”. Her call was sweet, and despite her beauty, she was no siren, there was no temptress tone in her words.

The pain was still too great. The fear, crippling. For dipping would lead to heels, heels to which his head would fall over too quickly.

Her soft fingers traced down his sunbrown back. Sand stuck to his lightly sweated neck. Flinching, he was unable to dissuade her hearts call to touch.

“Just a toe” she whispered.

His cheek flinched, the sun sparkling rays of warmth into his otherwise cold soul. His raised arm over his face no match from the glare from the blue. He shifted, nestling under the protection of the vine, shielding, as if it were, from the warmth. Her words resonated. Echoed. Bounced off the walls of his heavily guarded heart. Still, her hand gently persistent, tracing ‘eternity’ around his squared, pensive shoulders.

“One dip, it’s all I ask” sweetness permeated from her lips. He wondered, picking his salt-dried lips, wondered, wondered, wondered why. The pain gripped him around the throat one more time, angrily choking the wonder from his mind.

He remembered the cruel sea. He remembered the pain of the dark blue. The storms. The angry wind, the viscous waves. The grave of the deep reaching his angry hand to drag him down. The siren of the water, that whore, promising pleasure, leaving him shipwrecked, alone, adrift.

Still, he wondered.

She stared out across the Mediterranean. Her fingers, massaging the nape of his neck, prying the anger away from his throat. Her warm fingers.  Twirling a lock. Tracing the bones of his spine. Being.

They hadn’t spoken since her proclamation in Marseilles, since he shut down, wondering why she would ruin what they had with something so reckless as love. His broken heart still clenched tight, he angered at why she would dare. Why she would be so foolish as to entrust such a thing in him. Still, her fingers lingered.

“Try me” she implored once again “Just dip your toe in, just once” her words, reassuring, her repetition comforting. He found himself inching towards the thought.

He trained his eyes on the sea. The white caps of the waves, the boats rocking like distant metronomes on the water. He felt the tempest recede inside of him. He wondered, just wondered.

“Dip your toe in the water, my darling, dip it in the water, with me” her voice once again gently persistent like the incoming tide, coming up to meet him, to meet his shore.

The storm still stirred, yet he turned, turned towards her. Her eyes deep as the blue before him, he mustered a squint and a smile

“I’ll dip my toe in the water, I’ll dip it with you”.

Image from http://swim-in-the-sea-count-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/112132247487

 

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18th Birthday (or the tyranny of youth)

 

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Writer’s note: I wrote this not to advocate any position, or to say anything in particular. It’s simply a collection of observations, stories, hushed chats and whispers. There’s stories in here that aren’t my own, and it’s certainly not my intention to sound like I’m advocating a position. It’s in a minor key, it’s a bundle of observations and a collection of mumbles. 

Bekka’s turning 18, coming of age, party at mum and dads. Scotty spins the tunes and dad throws up the fairy lights, mum caters to fill teenage stomachs – it’ll come up in the front paddock in a few hours anyway.

Mason’s got a new truck, lifted with an LED bar light to be seen from space. He’s the first to arrive at this festive event, and his country dimples cover valleys of insecurity. Cowboy hat bent at the front, ma and pa secretly hope he’d turn his eyes towards their Bek – if only they knew.

Stace, Maria and Bree tumble out of someone’s back seat, pre-loaded. Dressed to the nines, their heels sink into soft country soil, squealing with each squelch, their lives work to snob you off.

Jase makes an entrance, circle work in his beat up ute. The joker, always the laugh. Bekka’s beau, the half bottle of cheap bourbon held by it’s neck. He’s the joker, but she’s got a creeping suspicion the joke’s on him. 20 years old, on the same an hour, with no prospects of increase.

Family comes, smiles abound. Uncle Frank and Aunt Nina, there’s grandma and gramps. Cousins of all ages. Dad playfully grabs Danny in a headlock, trying to explain that his sodomite son is merely creative, like you can try to explain the gay away. Thanks dad, but they both grieve, unable to move past recent revelations.

Raye and Chrissy sit in the tray of Mason’s ute, necking cheap vodka straight from the bottle. He could have both in a heartbeat, but his sights are set on other targets, perhaps tonight he’ll pipe up the confidence to tell her.

Dwayne sings along to the country ditties, he’s unusually talented that way. Laughing off the compliments, he wonders how life might be different if not yoked with three generations of expectation breathing down his neck. Still, he hums along, wondering, even for a second, if things were different.

Kal, as everyone agrees, is classic wife material, the mother hen of the group. She chats CWA with mum, half an eye on Danny, blissfully unaware he’ll make no woman honest. She mistakes his compliments for flirting, and the thought crosses his mind that perhaps he could fake it, until he made it.

Speeches, and mum and dad praise their perfect Bekka. She spies Jase, he’s getting amorous with Raye, and  way too close to his bourbon. She pats her tummy – a week late, and she wonders how daddy will react if she breaks the news to him.

And the party continues, and the fire crackles. They all continue to live their lives together, all in secret.

Picture from https://www.google.com.au/imgres?imgurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.lovethispic.com%2Fuploaded_images%2F108685-Bonfire-Party.jpg&imgrefurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.lovethispic.com%2Fimage%2F108685%2Fbonfire-party&docid=2BomfXY3f8L2kM&tbnid=ahC-QHXakHIw-M%3A&vet=1&w=500&h=332&bih=708&biw=1517&q=teenagers%20party%20bonfire&ved=0ahUKEwiY4ePVj7_SAhVrrFQKHcKHDpgQMwhFKCMwIw&iact=mrc&uact=8#h=332&imgrc=ahC-QHXakHIw-M:&vet=1&w=500

 

 

For the thrill of it

How good is it to watch those you love do what they love? My nanny just comes alive when you ask her about her garden. My brothers love looking after the sick and injured, both human and animal.

It is just amazing to watch those you love ‘ply their craft’ without fear or concern of financial reward. There is very little money in tending your garden, or looking after the ill. But to those who do it, they get an immense amount of satisfaction.

For me, I quite enjoy writing. I’ve found blogging, both here and the Vidins Travel Blog is just so invigorating and enjoyable. I love thinking about what to write, thinking about how the words will look on the page, how the paragraphs will flow, how the writing will make people react.

I’ve had a few people tell me that I should write for money. Perhaps write a short story for a magazine, or something similar. Whilst I think this is grand, I guess there is something always holding me back. A few things, actually.

I love writing, but my concern is, if I was paid for it, would it become a chore, a job? Would the inherent enjoy-ability and freedom be diminished?  Who knows.

Also, you just don’t know how good you really are. Mel Gibson stars in a movie called ‘Maverick’, where he is a poker player. He says a line in it which goes something like ‘I wanted to know how good I actually was’, when referring to going into a poker competition.

I don’t know if it is my personality, or what, but if I go in a competition (and know that I am super non-competitive), I want to know if I’m going to win. And if I go in a writing completion, I’d want to win. So I wouldn’t go in the competition if I was not going to win. And when I say I’d want to win, I want to know that the other people were better than me, so I’d beat them.

In year 11, I was put in the ‘low’ English class. Not many things in school annoyed me, but that annoyed me. I knew I was not ‘low’ English material. I knew I deserved to be in the top class. I don’t know how I ended up in that class, but I did. So I made a bet. I bet the teacher of the top English class that at the end of the year, my score / ranking would be in the top half of the whole grade – that is – better than half of the ‘top’ English class.  The reward? A three pack of Mars Bars.

Guess who brought home the bacon? That’s right. Your Man Vidins.

I’ve always been lousy at sports. Maths is like pfft. I’m a mediocre manager at best. But I do enjoy writing. I’d even go as far as blowing my own horn and say that not only do I enjoy it, but I’m not half bad.

A friend sent me a link to a writing completion. It’s pricked my interest.

I think I’ll go in it. Not to win (secretly, I want to win big time). Actually, I’ll be overt. I want to win. I want to know how good I could be.