You're. (poem after You're, Sylvia Plath)

You’re

Pie-faced, smiley like the sunshine,
Cotton wool hair, that’s fragrant,
My pot-bellied dwarf. Thick thighs like
water balloons fit to burst.
Stumbling, head down as you canter,
A giggling cartoon racehorse. 
Like a midnight banshee you sing
A song of vowels soprano,
Summoning me to rock a bye. 

Two foot diva, a mini-me.
My wee toothless gummy bear.
Wet food buff, my impressionist .
Kissing machine you stamp me
with saliva marking what’s yours.
A branch on my tree, new bud.
Made by me, the best bits of me.
And some more of your own.
An equation supreme, that’s you.

******************************

Self-help Suicide at Rick's Cafe. (Memoir).

Rick’s Tattoo.

I’m not one for spending money on self-help books or listening to the advice of ‘Bullshit Gurus’. They’re full of the obvious, such as, be good and good things happen to you or the ridiculous statement, think yourself thin! I’m pretty sure you can’t think yourself thin whilst scoffing a cherry pie and that however much positive thinking you do, it won’t cure your cancer. However, I did dabble in the self-help field a few years ago…

 I had decided to go on a one-off luxury trip to Jamaica with a few friends, Kat, Nicky and John. The day before we left, my boss at Household Bank, Jason, gave me a book to read on the beach. Now, I wasn’t expecting the latest Jackie Collins smut-fest, but I was surprised to see it was a so-called ‘self-help’ book. Jason was a Richard Branson wannabe, arrogant and self-centred - not the kind of person who relied on self-help books for confidence. Or so I thought. It had a grey-haired man on the front with the look of an American-President about him. The words, ‘Thinking Big’ were stamped across it. I shoved it in my suitcase with no real intention of reading it. I was planning to pickle myself with rum and relax with my friends – not read self-help books!

Jamaica was luscious. Our hotel was on a beach which reminded me of the beach on the ‘Bounty’ advertisement that I’d dreamt of visiting since I was a child. It was also next to a nudist resort called ‘Hedonism’. Their holiday-makers sometimes walked along our beach in the buff which we wouldn’t have minded if they were young, athletic Americans, but they were always grey-haired, pot-bellied old men wearing sunglasses, hats and nothing else. And the grey hair wasn’t constrained to the head. We had a birds-eye view of the pier where their daily activities took place. Naked yoga was an experience and occasionally, they took the holiday cocktail term, ‘Sex on the Beach’ literally.

            We had planned to go on a hotel-run boat trip to a place called, ‘Rick’s Café’. On the day before, I got terribly sunburned so I grabbed my book, ‘Thinking Big’ and headed for a shaded hammock on the beach. I started to read whilst downing rum cocktails and was surprised to agree with everything Dr David Schwartz was saying. ‘Believe that you will succeed and you will’ and ‘Cure yourself of excusitis’ – it was like the old cliché of the light-bulb coming on in my head – assisted by the Jamaican rum, of course. By the time we were ready to go for our boat trip, I felt completely in awe of Dr Schwartz and in hindsight, a bit brainwashed.

            On board were my friends and I, two Russians who didn’t speak English and two Americans. It was nothing fancy, an old wooden boat with a green canopy on top to save our scalps from scalding. It reminded me of that film, ‘The African Queen’. We shared some rum with the forty-something Americans who were U.S Marines. We had silently formed a clique, leaving the suspicious Russians to the other side of the boat.

Our boat was driven slowly into a cave and I stood up to take a photo. Just then, one of the Jamaican boat drivers threw a plastic cup up into the air and a massive swarm of bats flew down. I dived to the floor screaming like a splatted star-fish. The American woman tutted and said,

‘Jeez, it’s only a few bats, Christ-sakes!’ The Jamaicans were laughing as they steered the boat back out of the cave. Obviously, this was the highlight of their trip.

When we arrived at Rick’s Café, we were told the boat would be back for us in two hours and to climb up the steps that had been carved into the cliff. At the top, I understood what all the fuss was about. It was breath-taking. A cool, vibrant bar area, a pool, huge soft cushions to chill on and Jamaican music. The staff at Rick’s were jumping off the 35ft cliff into the sea for our entertainment. They looked like they were made from plasticine the way their bodies flipped and twirled mid-air. We had Jerk Chicken for lunch looking out over the twinkling sea and lounged on the cushions, drinking rum.

I was explaining how great ‘Thinking Big’ was to my friends. They were opposed to self-help books and were mocking me.

‘Listen, I, Leesa Harker can DO ANYTHING!’ I said flinging my arms in the air to dramatize the revelation. ‘There is no difference in ME and any other human, the only thing that stops me doing amazing things is ‘excusitis!’ Kat was choking on her rum laughing and Nicky and John exchanged glances, but I carried on, ‘Hesitation spells failure – take risks!’ Through a rum and coke haze, I decided to demonstrate my theory. I stood up, like a magician about to make a rabbit appear from a hat, and explained that I was going to jump off the cliff like the bendy Jamaican boys. A roar of laughter went up. Any fool could see that I was aerodynamically challenged. I had never even jumped off the diving board at the pool at home – and that was a two-foot drop.

I marched over to the cliff edge. A huge black man with a bald shiny head looked at me, his face saying, really? I kicked off my flip-flops and nodded, confidently. Dr Schwartz’s words rang out in my head, ‘You can do anything! Don’t hesitate, just DO it!’ The Jamaican said slowly in his thick voice,

‘Stay straight, hold your…’ That’s all I heard. I had already leapt from the cliff edge like a giddy gazelle. About a millisecond after I jumped, my mind went blank and only one word rang out. Shhhhiiiitttttttt! The sparkling Jamaican Ocean came closer and closer in slow motion. I took in the beautiful horizon where sea meets sky just before the terror set in. And then I crashed through what felt like a huge pane of glass. Then… blue… dark blue… navy…then black!

I was deep underwater – and panicking. My stupidity hit me like a Red Snapper to the face. I felt excruciating pain all round my bottom. I yelped out air which bubbled upwards, showing me the way and even though I couldn’t feel my legs, I somehow floated to the top. When I surfaced, there were about a hundred faces peering over the cliff edge. I was mortified. I heard Americans shouting,

‘Oh My God, are you okay?’ My friends later told me they thought I had surely died after entering the water like a Ninja doing an air-karate kick. To my absolute gratitude, John was beside the black man, taking instructions to hold his arms across his chest, feet together and body stiff. He jumped off, went into the sea like a dart and back up again to help me. I was in agony and still couldn’t feel my legs. I had to be carried onto the boat, which had just arrived.

The Jamaicans were almost rolling about laughing. The American’s high-fived me and the Russians cracked a smile, or two in my direction. The American woman who had rolled her eyes at me for the screaming incident in the bat cave said she had much respect for me and that she hadn’t the balls to jump. The Jamaicans passed me a bottle of rum to ‘help with the pain’ saying they had seen it all before and that I was going to have a ‘Rick’s Tattoo’ – a huge bruise on my arse. The pain was so bad that I had to sit on a life-vest on the way home. As if the day hadn’t been dramatic enough, the boat broke down in the middle of the sea. I tried to recall how Katherine Hepburn tried to save the African Queen, but couldn’t. Luckily, there was more rum stored on the boat and we all got very drunk, even the drivers. I told everyone about Dr Schwartz and the Americans suggested I sued, which I promised I would. We began a sing-song and the only song that the Americans, Russians and Jamaicans knew was, Rick Astley’s ‘Never Gonna Give You Up.’ That’s what was ringing out as the rescue boat arrived.

The next day, my Rick’s tattoo appeared. Both my bum cheeks were black and blue. Word had spread in the hotel and the workers greeted me with,

‘Hey, J-Lo, how’s your butt?’ for the duration of the holiday. I had in fact, broken my coccyx bone, which I found out after weeks of not being able to sit down properly.

So yes, self-help books are a strange phenomenon. Yes, you can do anything, it’s true, but you may die or make a complete fool out of yourself as a consequence. It doesn’t say that on the cover!

Another Mother. (poem)

Another Mother.

I’m turning into my mother,

It’s clear for all to see.

I never thought it would happen to me, but,

I’m a living effigy.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m just a ticking time-bomb,

I’ve yet to wear a twin-set and pearls.

But the stilettos are gone and the flat shoes are on,

As are thick tights and belly-flattening girdles.

I say things like ‘Back in my day…’

I prefer fine wine to vodka and Red Bull.

I’ve a huge stash of celebrity work-out DVD’s,

Even so, gravity’s starting to pull.

Technology’s becoming ever so complicated,

Music’s now too loud for my ears.

I keep getting my kids’ names mixed up,

When a baby’s born, I’m always in tears.

I carry my Tesco Clubcard everywhere,

I recycle empty boxes of flan.

I watch Oprah re-runs - even the eighties’ ones,

I’ve tried every existing diet plan.

I’m turning into my mother,

Resistance is futile, I can see.

I’m embracing it, with a smile now I know,

My daughters will turn into me!

Slimmer for Christmas. (Flash fiction)

Slimmer for Christmas.

Samantha rammed another Malteser into her mouth and pouted like an insolent child. She’d watched the ‘Davina Work-Out’ DVD three times this week and nothing had happened yet. No thinner. Bubble-wrap arse and crimpolene thighs still intact – and only three weeks to Christmas! Yes – of course she knew she had to actually DO the exercises but she thought it was so important to KNOW the routine before she tried it out. A pre-warm-up warm-up. Yes, she thought, don’t want to end up with an injury or anything… She kicked her brand new trainers off and threw her legs up on the soft leather sofa. Her living room floor was littered with Weightwatchers magazines, leaflets and scrunched-up empty Malteser packets. She looked down at them with contempt, twirling a lock of shimmery black hair round her index finger.

Yesterday’s meeting had been a nightmare. Not only had she put on three pounds but the class leader had gone on and on about the perils of butter. Buttered toast, butter on scones, cooking with butter and now all she could think about was butter!  She’d never wanted butter so much in her life. She was in a large lardy labyrinth and couldn’t get out. She shoved two Maltesters into her gob and crunched down hard, letting them crumble and dissolve into a lovely messy mix of chocolate and buttery malt… Oh God! Stop thinking about butter! She thought. She wondered how many class members would secretly be sniffing packs of butter in the fridge at Tesco whilst reaching out for the low fat spread. She giggled at the thought.

At least she wasn’t alone. There were at least ten other heifers like herself in the class who could be relied on not to stick to a diet of lettuce and air. Last week, Linda had come back from an all-inclusive holiday to Turkey and had put on ten pounds. The screen had flashed red on the computerised scales saying ‘EXCESSIVE WEIGHT GAIN’, matching Linda’s flashing red cheeks.

‘Bloody cocktails that was!’ she’d exclaimed.

Samantha had nodded, imagining Linda belly-sliding along the dessert buffet bar, mouth agape swallowing food like a basking shark. She smiled as she remembered how Linda must be having the same butter cravings because when the meeting was over she’d said,

‘Hope I do butter next week!’

No one had corrected her. Samantha popped another three Maltesers into her mouth whilst watching Davina vigorously star jumping on the TV. Must buy a sports bra before tackling that one, she thought. Yes, definitely need to make sure I have the right equipment – can’t be star jumping with my voluptuous bosom, don’t want to get an injury or anything!

She wondered if Barbara had a sports bra. Barbara was always bragging about taking on new and more adventurous fitness regimes. She goes way beyond most of the class’s neurotic desire to lose weight. Everyone succumbs to the pre-class routine of emptying their bowels, bladder – even blowing their noses to make sure every ounce possible is ejected from their being before getting on the scales – but in the privacy of their own homes.  Barbara literally runs from the leisure centre loos to the scale before any scrape of water retention or bodily fluid can creep on to her body. She even cut her dense ginger frizzy hair one week to help her beat the scales – it must have weighed at least a pound. It was as if her battle was with the scales and not her own obesity. Every week she lost weight, she revelled in her victory looking down at the scales with a smug vengeance.  If she could, she’d get on the scales wearing a paper thong and nipple tassels to be the lowest possible weight she could be. Actually, sink plungers would be more appropriate for covering her modesty on those bazooka boobs, Samantha thought. She imagined the class leader telling Barbara she’d lost half a pound and Barbara pirouetting off the scales, plungers sweeping like Samurai swords. She’s only fooling herself, Samantha thought. Not like me, who is actually doing something about losing weight – getting a Davina Work-Out DVD and reading the class magazines etc. She nodded at her epiphany and grabbed the remote, shoving the last three Maltesers nto the side of her cheek, letting the chocolate go soft and warm. I wonder is Eastenders on yet, she thought. 

A Soldier - Flash fiction.

A Soldier.                              

He crouched down, camouflaging into the murky walls of derelict houses. His eyes peeked out from under his helmet darting left to right and back again. The giant rifle he held dwarfed him. He was about the same age as my son, back then, a teenager. I watched him cowering and shivering and decided I’d take him a cup of tea. As I put the kettle on the stove, I heard the shots.  I ran back to the window and saw him sitting against the wall, holding his chest. No return fire meant they’d left him - assuming he was dead. I grabbed a cloth from the airing cupboard and ran back to the window. A group of men had gathered round him. They’d taken his helmet off and were passing it around. I saw him take a bloody hand from his chest and hold it out towards one of the men. The poor lad thought they’d come to help him. I flinched as the man kicked his hand away. In a flash I was out of the house and running towards them. My heart was pounding thinking about his poor mother across the water.

The men were cheering and spitting on him. I pushed through and kneeled before him, his eyes were huge, still darting back and forth. I took his face in my hands and told him he’d be alright. He held out his hand to show me the blood, like a child showing his mother a painting he’d done at school. I heard one of the men calling for the sniper to finish him off and I prayed to God his lot would come for him now. He clutched his chest and cried out for his mother and I told him she was coming. I held the cloth against his chest and immediately it was saturated with blood. The rumble of a helicopter overhead disbursed the men. Then it was just me and him. I gave him my hand and he gripped it tightly. I looked down at the blood under my knees and told him again that his mother was coming. I wiped the spit from his face with my sleeve and he smiled. Then his grip loosened. I’d hoped he’d hang on ‘til they came for him. He slumped onto his side, still holding my hand. A tear dropped from my face into the blood beneath me as the Landover pulled up. His young body was hurled into the back of it, like a bag of coal. They couldn’t risk being there a second more than they had to.

I walked across the street, despising eyes watching me through net curtains. He was just a Brit to them. Not a boy. Not even human. I sat in my bloodied clothes listening to the news on the radio; I wanted to know his name. A soldier was shot dead, it had said. A soldier. And that’s all I would ever know.

                                                                                                                    

A little about me.

A little about me.

I'm a 30-something (*blushes*) single mum from Belfast who loves to write...and read. I have two girls who are 4 and 1 - I call them the midnight banshees due to their evening screaming activities. Yes, I despise people whos children sleep all night or know to have a lie in on Sundays!

Anyway, I am nearly finished a degree in English and Literature with the OU and am currently studying 'Creative Writing' which has propelled me from day-dreaming of being an author to actually thinking, it might just happen. I've written loads of poems and short stories which I will put on here for you to read - hopefully you will find them.. entertaining?

I'm currently writing a novel - have (impatiently) sent the first three chapters out to agents - no phonecalls as yet... but as my mum says, 'J.K Rowling got rejected loads before she got signed!' - oh and she calls me J.K Harker. As a joke. My dad calls me 'half-a-point' because I have been on Weightwatchers for about three years on-and-off and still haven't cured my addiction for all things sugary/fatty/badforyou.

Anyway, that's my wee introduction - I hope you like some of my scribbles!

Leesa x