Tarantella – the art of the dancer
March 23, 2013

Having just blogged about burlesque and the art of person to person, body to body flirting that we seem to be losing in our digital age in my singles social blog ( ‘Have you got in touch with your naughty side recently?’), I thought I’d have a bit of a tinker with the start of the short story I entered for the ITV.com Racy Reads competition  about a month or so ago. No, I didn’t win – I wasn’t explicit, stemy or trashy enough – and I’ve never rally seen myself as the next Mills and Boon bodice ripper – or maybe now with the 50 shades advent; manacle gripper – but I did have fun writing something that would be more commercial than convincing.

Here we go then – the first 1000 words of Tarantella – do you fancy me completing it? If so, let’s have some naughty plotline suggestions please!

***

‘Carrie, come on – or management will be pissed with you.’ Danno sounded more than impatient, he sounded like management.

belly dancer for tarantella‘Coming.’

She pushed away from the spot-lit mirror and hurried up the stairs from the dressing room to the back of the stage. The noise and smells of the club greeted her, raucous and acrid.

‘They’re getting bored waiting,’ Danno chivvied her. She shrugged unconcernedly.

‘Then I’ll be all the more worth waiting for, won’t I?’ She hated this brittle bitch she had to pretend to be as ‘Tarantella’, but it was expected now. That was who she was to them all; a beautiful raven haired bitch, a tart without a heart. The private Carrie had got lost behind the public dancer. She wondered testily how they could be bored with so many other girls strutting and posing on the podiums around the club or desperately blagging dances in the VIP booths, but she knew what Danno meant.  They were waiting for her – for Tarantella, and the new club owner was there tonight too, wanting to see what he’d bought and what changes he might be making to it. She took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage to a mixture of cat calls and wolf-whistles, but a hush fell as she danced. In her private world she was Carrie, doing a job for money. On stage she was Tarantella, siren, charmer, beguiler, dancer; stripper. The chiffon layers slowly dropped away as she twisted and snaked, arching her back as her body undulated. The only sound was the music. The punters were mesmerised and she was glad the spotlight blinded her to them. She lost herself in the challenge to perform artistically, not simply strip. The music dropped as she slid the basque top away to show her small breasts, like ripe peaches, and the mood became more tense; sexual.

She didn’t like this part of the routine because it brought her too close to them and she could catch glimpses of the faces watching as she slithered and twisted. She reached the point in the dance where she had to face the audience and remove her g string, usually to deafening applause and shouts for more. She pulled the knot on the side but the sounds and the responses were lost on her as she met the piercing eyes she’d not encountered before – at the back of the audience, almost hidden. He looked smarter than most of the men there. He stood out from them for that alone. Maybe that was why she noticed him as she unintentionally glanced out at her audience?  His face was intent but not in a lustful way like the others; meditative – curious even. Who are you? It said. The bolt went through her like lightening. And who are you too?

She picked up her abandoned clothes and slipped quickly off stage.

‘Good stuff,’ Danno called after her. He was the nicer of the heavies and she called her thanks back – best to keep in with the bouncers. ‘The boss was up the back; the new bloke. Did you see him?’ She paused, pulling her clothes to her defensively; suddenly ridiculously shy at being naked now she was off-stage.

‘No, where? What’s he look like?’

‘Oh pretty non-descript, but smart-dressed, not like the other bums out there.’ So that had been the new guy, subtle, understated; but she’d sensed the power behind the quiet exterior. For the first time in ages her interest was stirred. She changed quickly into the cowgirl outfit she hated – all rhinestones and glitz. The hat was a monstrosity, but useful to play hide and seek with on-stage, gradually revealing the beautiful body she kept so privately to herself off-stage.

She didn’t hear him arrive as she strapped the tiny sparkling thigh holster on, stiletto boot braced against the vanity unit.Kinky boots

‘Ride-em cowboy!’ The voice was deep and smooth, like molten chocolate, but she was already anxious so she snapped a sharp response back without looking.

‘Oh get a life, can’t you?’

‘I already have a perfectly good one, actually.’ The reply came back quickly but mildly. She turned around in surprise to find him right behind her, so close her face was level with his chest and his musky maleness made her blood pulse faster. She looked up and met two amused blue eyes, crinkling boyishly at the corners. The same calm control and underlying power was apparent at close quarters too. She gasped under cover of stepping back to put some space between them before his proximity made her head spin. ‘I’m Jack Good, the new owner, and you, from the description must be Carrie – or Tarantella, by another name. Do you kill your lovers as well as your boss by paralysing them with your venom – or is that just a rumour?’ The barb was deserved but she couldn’t resist rising to it.

‘Only if they’re not clever enough to avoid it.’ She threw back her shoulders defiantly. The frail dark beauty became fire and fury. He raised his eyebrows.

‘I can see your spark isn’t just in your gun.’ He laughed and she felt put down. She didn’t like this man after all, but he disturbed her peace of mind nevertheless. He leant forward and whispered in her ear. ‘Dare you…’ So it would be a duel to the death then? She pulled the tiny gun from its holster and pushed it into his chest.

‘Bang, bang! You’re dead, Mister.’ She could feel the heat from his body and as she looked up their lips almost met. He smelt of brandy and the heady fumes mixed with her pounding blood.

‘Hey Carrie, where are you?’ It was Danno again.

‘Now you’ll have some fire in your performance.’ He breathed the words onto her lips. She trembled and he steadied her. What was this man doing to her? He surveyed her flushed cheeks and parted lips with satisfaction. ‘That’s what I like in my dancers…’

***

Images are:

1. Shakira at the Rock in Rio concert 2008 courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

2. Bondage by Raimond Spekking via Wikimedia Commons

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Beyond the page – Sandra’s revenge
July 12, 2012

… She’d joined a class, you see. The lure had been too much and once she’d started thinking about it, she couldn’t put the thought aside, no matter how hard she tried. She’d gone during the day when he was at work or on a Saturday morning when he thought she was doing the shopping. She’d practiced hard. She’d mastered the dips and the drops, the shimmering vibrations of the body layered ontostaccatomovements of the hips as they flicked and twitched in a wicked invitation to touch, no don’t touch! The fluid undulations and rotations, mimicking the impression of riding a camel, or some other beast, as her body circled and enticed, come here, join, entwine…Slow and tantalising, wild and whirling, graceful and floating, with a myriad of veils divested, one by one as the various layers of the human psyche are divested from the loftiest and most philosophical thoughts – the cool blue veil – to the earthiness of physical desire and need – the red veil . . .

She dropped the blood red veil to the floor in a swirl. The dance had finished. She breathed heavily. Yes, she would perform well tomorrow evening.

The whole secret gave Sandra such satisfaction. And it had insidiously changed so much for her too. Just the exercise itself had made her slim down, and that weight problem that he thought she had? Well it had simply melted away, replacing her low self-esteem with a sense of admiration, for her now sleek but voluptuous body, but also for having been able to master the subtle arts of the dance. Of course he didn’t even notice the change. He saw nothing but what he expected to see in front of him and she kept up the persona for him, refusing to share even the smallest part of her new self with him. He might share the same bed with her, but his hands never touched even the top layer of the shapeless old nightie she wore so even the most intimate moment they might share didn’t betray her.

The mantra of ‘stupid , fat and useless’ which he’d instilled in her over the years was replaced with ‘lithe, skilled and able.’ So, what else could she do?  Maybe she wasn’t so useless after all. She’d looked in the ‘sits vac’ column, something she hadn’t done in years. She’d ringed the ones she tentatively wondered if she could manage and been amazedly delighted when she’d been offered a job.  She started it next week.

The next evening she had to wait for him to go out before she could leave herself. She’d already carefully packed her costume in a bag and hidden it behind the shabby brown suitcase in the wardrobe. When she arrived at the venue, the other dancers were bustling around in the dressing rooms. Marie, the class teacher fell on her breathlessly,

‘Oh Sandy, thank goodness you’re here now. I was starting to worry…You’re our star… Everything is alright, isn’t it?

Sandra smiled at her. ‘Just a little delayed.’

She slid into her costume and swiftly completed the transformation. Looking in the full length mirror, she barely recognised herself. Not fifty, fat and frumpy as she’d used to joke ruefully to her friends, but a sibilant siren, skirts slipping softly to her ankles, swishing as she slid gracefully onto the dance floor. It was a ‘hafla’, a Turkish dance party, with other troupes and classes joining in the demonstrations and the audience made up of the class members, their friends and partners. Her class was hosting it. The audience sat at tables around the dance floor, cabaret style.

As soon as she was on the dance floor she spotted him. He was sitting on the far side of a table towards one side, trying to be insignificant, yet watching the movements of the dancers with hard, hungry eyes. She felt a moment of panic as she felt his eyes slide over her. Not yet, not now, she silently prayed. The eyes stayed on her, but not out of recognition, out of desire. He shifted his position, straining forward to get a better look from his deliberately slightly obstructed view – probably cursing he’d chosen this half-hidden seat now.

She stood in position, shrouded in the seven veils of her dance, eyes masked with vibrant, sumptuous sequins and feathers so only her full mouth could be seen, curved slightly in a mysterious smile. Cool spiritual blue was the top layer, peeling down through turquoise, green, yellow, orange, cerise to deep pulsating red; the red of blood coursing through a body that was revealed in its transformation from spiritual to sensual as each layer enveloping her unfurled, coloured the room and dropped like shimmering pool to the floor; another layer of herself had been discarded. All restrictions removed. Sandra whirled and  gyrated, entreated and enticed, withdrew – and the metamorphosis happened  in front of their eyes – from a cool blue nymph to a scarlet siren, climaxing by throwing herself in abandon across the floor with a gesture that flung her body open in its’ entirety to any would be possessor – ‘take me . . .’

The room was transfixed, and so was he.

M/F

Sandra escaped to the dressing room, exhausted with the effort of portraying the emotions as much as following the right choreography. The class crowded round her, congratulating her, expressing their delight in her, and the class teacher was enraptured, holding onto her hand and grinning like a clown. The bustle swathed her in a sense of having finally arrived. Her exhaustion dissipated as their energy and enthusiasm trickled into her, until all of a sudden, the moment was now. Now was right. She allowed them to lead her back into the dance arena for a general round of applause for the whole class for having put on the show, and then she was being whisked into the crowds to say hello here, have her hand shook there, be introduced to this person or that.

‘I must introduce you to Frank,’ Mandy said, ‘you know my . . .’ Her voice trailed off, as she made a coy gesture indicating ‘my lover’ but not actually saying it. ‘He’s always a bit derogatory about belly dancing, but he won’t be able to be now he’s seen you dance.’

Sandra smiled and turned to look into the ashen face of Frank.

The chapter ended there, and Mary rested the book back into her lap. Frank – father’s name was Frank. Was the book telling her something? Had father treated mother this way? She concentrated hard on reviving the sense of her father in her mind. The way he’d stood – the sag of his shoulders mimicking the droop of his moustache, eyes dulled and defeated. Then by contrast mother sitting in her chair – this chair – ram-rod straight, cold, brushing Mary’s hair so hard she felt sore afterwards; not a soft atom in mother’s body, ever. No, fathers’ whole demeanour told her that he was unlikely to have been the aggressor. Mother on the other hand . . .

More to follow next week …

Follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Debbie-Martin-author-and-writer/290947497649847

and on my website:

www.debbie@debbiemartin.co.uk

where you’ll find lots more to read and information when my books are going to be published.

Debbie Martin

Beyond the page as Sandra sways …
July 5, 2012

Now it starts to get interesting for Sandra…

‘. . . Sandra glowered at him with hatred, but he didn’t see her venom. He was buried in his damn Telegraph as usual. ‘Blah, blah, blah . . .’ she mimicked him, from her hidden position behind the upheld pages, openly making mocking faces at him as she silently mouthed the words. He just continued to drone on about HIS views and HIS opinions and HIS ideas, never, once, ever, asking her about hers. And of course the weight problem came up too – it always did. He called her blubbery like a whale: and the fact that she didn’t work.

‘. . . and that really is the crux of it?’ He suddenly put the pages down flat on his lap and looked directly at her over the top of his wire – rimmed glasses. Questioning, no: he wasn’t questioning her – he never questioned. He told : he told, criticised, belittled, and shamed her. He never questioned, otherwise he might have got a very different answer to the one he got. The question was rhetorical, just saying, ‘I’m right aren’t I?’ It just didn’t have the ‘aren’t I?‘ at the end of it.

Sandra hastily re-composed her belligerent sneer to a face of polite agreement. ‘If you think so, dear’ she said meekly, not even knowing what she was agreeing with because her mind had been totally taken up with the wonderful release of baring the teeth of her frustration at him in the seconds before the question-statement was posed.

‘Hmmm’ he said, narrowing his eyes at her, not quite sure if the response was satisfactory enough, and then obviously deciding it was only Sandra – it would do. He shook the newspaper pages slightly to remove any crumples from them and withdrew behind them again. The voice was slightly muffled as it continued from behind the barrier, ‘I’ll have that tea now, but make sure it’s not too weak, and there’s only one spoon of sugar in it, oh and I don’t want that flowery mug you gave me last time. You may want to act like a char woman but I drink my tea out of a proper cup and saucer like a gentleman would.’ He didn’t even look to see if Sandra acknowledged and obeyed the command: he knew she would.

Once the tea was satisfactorily made and provided in the appropriate format, Sandra escaped to the bedroom. She left the bedroom door just ajar – so she could hear if he moved from his throne and came upstairs to see what she was doing. Not that he was likely to. His interest in her had dwindled to nothing but the odd reprimand and string of orders years ago, once the children were grown. She’d outlived her attraction to him when she no longer provided anything material in his life. He’d already looked elsewhere, anyway. She knew that. She occasionally found the odd hotel or restaurant receipt in his jacket pocket when she took it to the dry cleaners. They were careless oversights on his part which merely told her he didn’t bother to hide anything anymore. Such absolute arrogance. She didn’t know who the current one was, but she suspected it was a woman at the office. She’d noticed his enlivened tone when he’d declaimed the woman as a tart for going to a belly dance class – a belly dance class of all things!

The comment had made Sandra pick up her ears – partly because she could tell that his interest was obviously piqued and whilst Sandra had long since ceased to care about his betrayals, she was canny enough to realise that it was wise to keep track for her own self-preservation. But she had also been curious about belly dancing. It conjured up tantalising images of raven haired beauties, barely covered in diaphanous silks, bejewelled and sequined, trailing seductively over the shoulders and sexual appetites of their male audience.  She almost smelt the heady scent of desire, the mystery of decadence, the pounding beat of the drum as the dancer flicked and shook her hips and breasts to its rhythm – the rhythm of sweat and thrust and sex. She shivered slightly in excitement. That was something she hadn’t experienced in a very long while. She crept to the bedroom door and listened silently for a few minutes. There was no sound at all below. He was either still deeply immersed in the stuffy news print or he’d dozed off. Either way, she could.

She stripped her shapeless woollen top off, dragging it over her head roughly, and hastily let her tracksuit pants drop around her ankles like a puddle. Hidden carefully at the back of her wardrobe, underneath an old dress, was the outfit. It was skimpy and exciting. She slid into it, smoothing the soft transparent drape of the skirt over her hips, running her hands down to her thighs, and then swinging them slightly, luxuriating in the way the fabric fell against her bodies outline, hiding it, but revealing all. She sighed with satisfaction, wriggled her shoulders slightly in a shimmy, making her breasts rub against each other exuberantly, bubbling over the top of the tiny sequined bra. She smiled.

 

More to follow next week …

Follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Debbie-Martin-author-and-writer/290947497649847

and on my website:

www.debbie@debbiemartin.co.uk

where you’ll find lots more to read and information when my books are going to be published.

Debbie Martin

Beyond the page – Chapter 3 starts here …
June 28, 2012

Chapter 3 starts Mary’s journey proper as she opens the book again…

 

Chapter 3

Without even realising it, exhaustion had overcome her and she had fallen asleep on the chair. Disturbing images of her father sobbing nagged in her head as she drifted, and then diffused into her dreams. Muddled scenes of men and women in shadowy and indistinct conflict flicked in front of her, one after another like the pictures in an old cinemascope. Silhouettes, posed mannequins in a staged set, one begging for – what? She didn’t know: another raising an arm – to hit or hold? A woman flinching as she anticipated a blow: and yet one more, that turned and smiled at her, swiftly turning away again, knife raised high to plunge. . . She woke with a jolt. The woman’s face was hers.      The book was in her lap again. She picked it up and rolled it over in her hands.

‘What is happening to me?’ She said it to the book itself, although she knew it was just an inanimate object, but yet it seemed to be inextricably linked to the odd experiences and memories that were swamping her, one after another. She leaned back against the chair again. It was still rough and uncompromising against her back.

‘This has got to go!’ Was she saying it to the book or the chair, she wondered ruefully. Both disturbed her in different ways – the chair because of its associations with mother – the book because, well, why the book? She fingered the scrollwork on its cover. It was fine filigree, and beautiful – she hadn’t noticed that until now. Her fingers lingered on its smooth leather. It was softer than the leather usually used to bind books. It had the softness of chamois, yet the depth of dark brown velvet with its plush pile. It fitted snugly into her hand as if it was melding with her. She realised that the ‘got to go’ was definitely for the chair. It was awful, and she wondered why she’d not got rid of it – got rid of the whole suite that actually she saw now she’d always hated – when mother had died. It rubbed against her shoulder blades and she flexed them, stretching and arching her neck to tease out the stiffness in it that sitting so upright in the chair caused. In doing so she looked directly at the door again and the thought of her sad-faced father standing hesitantly in it all those years ago upset her. What on earth had been going on between him and mother to have caused such a rift? Her imagination started to range through different scenarios – distrust, unfaithfulness, disillusionment – anger, yes anger because mother had been so brutal with him. Why was she so angry with him?

Her palm prickled and she realised she was clutching the book hard in her right hand, squeezing at it so the binding stuck to her. The continuing sense of confusion made her head feel woolly. Too many emotions were flitting through her and she felt unsteady, even though seated. The book, what was it about it? Automaton like, she flicked it open, letting it settle randomly at the start of another chapter. Chapter 9: ‘In the belly of the whale’.  Mary re-read the title and then let her eyes get drawn into the first line of the chapter…

‘. . . Sandra glowered at him with hatred, but he didn’t see her venom. He was buried in his damn Telegraph as usual. ‘Blah, blah, blah . . .’

More to follow next week …

Follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Debbie-Martin-author-and-writer/290947497649847

and on my website:

www.debbie@debbiemartin.co.uk

where you’ll find lots more to read and information when my books are published.

Debbie Martin

Beyond the page…
June 21, 2012

and so it continues…

There was nothing near her feet – it must have fallen when she dropped the book. It wasn’t obvious on the floor close by either so she stood up and laid the book on the seat of the chair and scrabbled around carefully under it, reaching gingerly as far as she could reach. She felt nothing as far as her fingers could reach. The knife must had bounced underneath the chair, just out of her reach. She moved the chair completely to one side, sweating slightly with the exertion of pushing it because it was old and heavy – solid oak and with threadbare tapestried upholstery. The floor under the chair was bare apart from a thin layer of dust and crumbs from years of the hoover only reaching to the front of the chair, and no further.  There was still no knife to be seen. She was puzzled. It must have slipped down the side of the seat cushion then.

Playing at the back of her mind now was the fear that there was a murder weapon here, in her home – one it seemed she’d used – or had she? It was like a dream, or was it real? Whatever it was, it had been there and she’d been grasping it and it had been sticky with a dead mans’ blood and she had to find it. Her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest and she felt the trembling rising in her again. She was afraid now. After half an hour of searching everywhere she could think of, in and around the chair, sliding her fingers carefully down the crevices in the upholstery and grimacing with disgust at the crumbs and sticky patches she encountered – this had been the chair mother had huddled in during her later years, and the accumulation of spilt meals and drinks probably accounted for the unpleasant detritus that Mary found – she admitted defeat. She plonked back into the chair and sat confused and uncertain what to do next.

It had felt so real, yet had she actually been the person acting out the drama, or had she imagined it all? Now the events that had unfolded were becoming a blur for her, just leaving the unsettling emotions she’d experienced buzzing at her like angry bees. She couldn’t even be sure of the sequence of events now – maybe there hadn’t been a knife, or had there? Had she stabbed – no, the woman – Belle –the man, or had she, or had it not happened at all? The more she tried to rationalise and document the events in her head, the more unclear they became, until eventually she wasn’t sure whether any of it had happened at all. She sunk into the chair and settled against the hard, high back of it. She was conscious of its rigidity and it was uncomfortable. Odd how, in all the years she’d sat in this chair, slyly when her mother was alive because it had always been mothers chair, and then by right when mother had died, almost like slipping into her mothers’ place without noticing, she’d never remarked on how uncomfortable it was. Now it felt hard and uncompromising against her shoulders and she shifted against it, wondering whether to move – but to where? The other chair in the room was not only similar, but also placed in the more drafty position – mother had always insisted on being out of all drafts. The settee – well that was just part of the set, and lower backed so it was not only hard and lumpy with its’ worn stuffing, but also left your head swaying around unsupported on a tired neck when you just wanted to relax. An odd thought strayed through her mind,

‘why don’t you get something much more comfortable then? She can’t stop you now…’

And she found herself agreeing with it – then pulling herself up short – now she was talking to herself too! Thinking about mother slipped her almost seamlessly into childhood memories – mother standing over her as she ate the ‘greens’ she so hated, mother brushing her hair hard with the stiff bristled brush so her scalp tingled, mother sitting prim and tight lipped on the edge of the same chair as father walked out of the door…

Now she was really shocked. When had father walked out of the door? Father – father? She couldn’t even remember him. He had died when she was very small and it had always been mother and her, in their routine. Get up, scrub her face with icy cold water because mother said you didn’t need hot water to wash in, clean her teeth, pull on her pinafore and blouse, dark wool tights – even in summer, and pull her hair neat and straight with the small white clip in one side – the only token gesture to femininity that mother had allowed.

She’d followed that routine into her teens, only varying slightly when going to work, to drop the pinafore and replace it with the skirt and blouse or skirt and jumper mother had applauded as looking ‘business-like’. Never walk around bare foot, or just in stockings – ‘you’ll catch your death’ – and everything had its place. Now father’s face was distinctly out of place, but she could picture him as clearly as if he was standing in front of her and she was mother perched on the edge of the chair as he was just walking out of the door, casting a pleading glance back at her.

Mary dredged her memories for an explanation – when was she remembering him leaving the home? Why? How old was she? Why did he look so sad? The droop of his full moustache added to the miserable expression, but his eyes were sad too, looking wistfully at…at her, no, at me – he was looking at me, not mother!   But I am mother – aren’t I? Mary concentrated hard, drawing the memory of the man back into the room, and there he was – almost as real as Belle had been.

‘You can go, I don’t want you here.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I want you to go, Frank. I don’t want you here anymore.’

‘Are you crazy, woman? I’m your husband.’

‘Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I have to have you here – sweating and upsetting my nice clean home, wanting to paw me in bed, expecting me to cook and clean for you. I hate you – I hate all you men. You disgust me, and I don’t want Mary warped by you either. ‘

‘Warped by me? What have I done? I am her father – I haven’t done anything wrong at all. I work all day at the bakery, I come home tired and all I want is a good hot meal and some affection from the woman who calls herself my wife and I’m told I’m a disgusting pig and I ‘paw’ you – I ‘paw’ you! You’re my wife and I’ve always shown you the utmost respect.’

‘Respect – pah! It’s no respect to have to do what a man wants me to. If you don’t go I’ll say you tried to paw Mary too and then they’ll make you go.’

‘Etta, Etta – what is wrong with you? Why this hatred of me – what have I done wrong? I don’t understand?

‘I don’t want a man here – any man here. I want you to go and I shall make you go.’

‘Etta…’ his face was pinched with surprise and pain. I knew from his slack stance that he was amazed and confused by mother. I looked from his face to mother’s.

‘Alright, you can stay here but I won’t have you anywhere near me and you must stay away from Mary. You can sleep in the spare room. I will leave you a meal for when you get in, but I don’t want to spend any of my time with you. If you don’t abide by my rules I’ll say you’ve touched Mary.’ She emphasised the word ‘touched’ but as Mary noticed it, she also realised the words were almost coming from her, and she was the icy cold, cruel woman damning the sad man lingering uncertainly at the door to a life of misery here or rejection away from them.

‘I’m sorry, Etta, I can’t live like that.’

‘You always were weak, Frank.’

‘Not weak, Etta, but that is no life – nor is it for the child.’

‘The child will do what I tell her to. So will you.’ The pronunciation was chilling, because I could see in father’s face that he realised he had no choice but to accept it. He was banished – however or whatever form it took – he was banished. He repeated his sad plea,

‘Etta, I can’t live like that – and why should Mary not have her father here? What have I done wrong – I don’t understand why you hate me so.’

‘I don’t want you here.’ The tone was implacable.

‘And what will you live on?’

‘You will send me some money every month.’ The tone was flat but dictatory.

‘I will… why would I do that when you banish me like this?’ It was the first time Father’s tone had grown harsh.

‘Because if you don’t I will tell Mary you are a monster and I will tell everyone else you touched her.’

Father just stood at the door, half in, half out of the room, just as he was in our lives. He was expressionless for a moment and then he sobbed. His face crumpled and he sobbed. Mary had never seen or heard a man cry before.

 

More to follow in chpater 3 next week …

Follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Debbie-Martin-author-and-writer/290947497649847

and on my website:

www.debbie@debbiemartin.co.uk

where you’ll find lots more to read and information when my books are published.

Debbie Martin

Marys story continues – Beyond the page …
June 14, 2012

Now it all gets a little more curious as Marys’ little story turns into a big one. Now I’ve written the first bit but eventually I’m going to ask for your assistance as you decide what might happen to Mary as her story unfolds – and I will write it!

Here’s how her story continues into Chapter 2 …

Chapter 2: Mary

The tumult of emotions still resonated within her – emotions she’d never even imagined before; the yearning of unrequited love twisted her heart uncomfortably and yet the humiliation made her shrivel  until the throb of revenge blended all the emotions into that one action –t he thrust of the knife. That had felt so good: so satisfying even as paradoxically she’d simultaneously felt the thrust of the bitter-sweet sadness of loss cut into her soul.

Nobody asked Mary questions about herself. They assumed she’d have nothing much to add to their experiences. Mary: plain, thirty-two and looking more like fifty-two. Life was a routine for Mary -it had been from the very first moments she could remember.  Mother’s routine then, but mother’s routine had become her routine as the years revolving round her mother had ingrained it in her too.

Mary stayed in her chair for a while, unsteady from the aftershocks of the first-time emotions.  Her world was unsettled. The surge of anger and the throb of passion had no place in the plod of her routine. Her stomach still churned from the anxious fear they’d instilled in her. She sat silently and still, waiting for the rolling waves in her stomach to settle, but they didn’t, and out of seemingly nowhere – just like the scene from the book had become solid around her, the unease turned dramatically into nausea, and she rushed to the bathroom, flinging the door wide as she made for the toilet, grabbing it’s rolled edge and hanging over the bowl, retching.

It reminded her of childhood tummy upsets. She’d always hated the thought of hanging her head over the toilet bowl when she felt sick as a child. Mother had issued dire warnings about touching toilet seats,

‘…covered in germs and they’ll get all over you…’ in that prim, I told you so voice that ordered Mary’s life.

She’d imagined the little army of germs mother said lived in toilets and on toilet seats – that was why you never touched them –  stomping up the incline of the bowl and swarming all over her head and face  and hands as she gripped the bowl and she was in turn gripped with the overpowering heaving of vomiting. Even as the rhythmic convulsions of her stomach resulted in of her stomach spewing  its’ contents out of her mouth, burning the back of her throat and making her eyes and nose run, so she imagined the germ army swarming over her microscopically – like a thin layer of iron filings bristling all over a magnet. After she’d been sick like that she’d always felt she wanted to scrub herself off to try to dislodge the germ fur all over her from the toilet bowl. It was no different this time even though there was no mother there to remind her…

At thirty-two she felt the same as she had at twelve, or even five, four – how young could she remember back to? The heaving sensation settled down and she sat back on her heels, away from the toilet bowl, yet still close enough to revert to hanging over it if the nausea returned. She swallowed hard, trying to soothe the rough soreness of her throat with her saliva, and swill away the acid taste left in her mouth by the vomit. She shivered with distaste but the nausea didn’t seem to be returning so she shakily stood up, flushed the toilet and held her hands under the running water from the hot tap. She squirted several sprays of liquid soap onto them and scrubbed, lathering the soap to a foaming froth, before rinsing it away, imagining a layer of germ army funnelling down the plughole, protesting and flailing as they tried to stop themselves being washed away. The incongruous picture she conjured up for herself made her giggle, but then she stifled it in mid-ripple, thinking ‘am I going mad?’  Why was she imagining armies of germs, like she had as a child? More to the point how and why had she imagined being a burlesque dancer stabbing a lover?

Mary carefully dried her hands on the rough white hand towel hanging over the edge of the bath, and cleaned her teeth. She felt better once she’d rinsed the vile after taste of the vomit from her mouth and the fresh spearmint of the toothpaste cleared her palate. She still felt unsteady so she returned to her armchair and sat down, confused and disturbed by what had engulfed her so totally for what seemed like hours, but from the time on the clock and the progress of the early evening shadows, had been no more than thirty minutes or so – only enough time to dive into a chapter in the book but no more.

She picked up the book from where it had tumbled from her lap onto the floor as she’d bolted for the bathroom. It was just as it had been when she’d settled it into the hollow of her lap and flipped the pages open – old worn leather, rough gilt edged pages, with a pattern chased just lightly into its’ leather binding. Then she remembered the knife – where was the knife that she’d been clutching? A tremor of fear fluttered through her chest – the knife that had pierced the man’s heart, and was smeared with his blood, deep red and sticky.

More next week – will she find the knife, do you think?

Follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Debbie-Martin-author-and-writer/290947497649847

and on my website:

www.debbie@debbiemartin.co.uk

where you’ll find lots more to read and information when my books are published.

Debbie Martin

In the belly of the whale – part 1
May 17, 2012

I’m starting a new story this week, but there’s another transformation involved …

In the belly of the whale

 

Sandra glowered at him with hatred, but he didn’t see her venom. He was buried in his damn Telegraph as usual.

‘Blah, blah, blah…’ she mimicked him, from her hidden position behind the upheld pages, openly making mocking faces at him as she silently mouthed the words. He just continued to drone on about HIS views and HIS opinions and HIS ideas, never, once, ever, asking her about hers. And of course the weight problem came up too – it always did. He called her blubbery like a whale. And the fact that she didn’t work.

‘…and that really is the crux of it?’ He suddenly put the pages down flat on his lap and looked directly at her over the top of his wire –rimmed glasses. Questioning. No. He wasn’t questioning her. He never questioned. He told. He told, criticised, belittled, shamed her. He never questioned, otherwise he might have got a very different answer to the one he got. The question was rhetorical, just saying, ‘I’m right aren’t I?’ It just didn’t have the ‘aren’t I? ‘ at the end of it.

Sandra hastily re-composed her belligerent sneer to a face of polite agreement. ‘If you think so, dear’ she said meekly, not even knowing what she was agreeing with because her mind had been totally taken up with the wonderful release of baring the teeth of her frustration at him in the seconds before the question-statement was posed.

‘Hmmm’ he said, narrowing his eyes at her, not quite sure if the response was satisfactory enough, and then obviously deciding it was only Sandra – it would do. He shook the newspaper pages slightly to remove any crumples from them and withdrew behind them again. The voice was slightly muffled as it continued from behind the barrier, ‘I’ll have that tea now, but make sure it’s not too weak, and there’s only one spoon of sugar in it…oh and I don’t want that flowery mug you gave me last time. You may want to act like a char woman but I drink my tea out of a proper cup and saucer like a gentleman would…’He didn’t even look to see if Sandra acknowledged and obeyed the command. He knew she would.

Once the tea was satisfactorily made and provided in the appropriate format, Sandra escaped to the bedroom. She left the bedroom door just ajar – so she could hear if he moved from his throne and came upstairs to see what she was doing. Not that he was likely to. His interest in her had dwindled to nothing but the odd reprimand and string of orders years ago, once the children were grown. She’d outlived her attraction to him when she no longer provided anything material in his life. He’d already looked elsewhere, anyway. She knew that. She occasionally found the odd hotel or restaurant receipt in his jacket pocket when she took it to the dry cleaners. They were careless oversights on his part which merely told her he didn’t bother to hide anything anymore. Absolute arrogance. She didn’t know who the current one was, but she suspected it was a woman at the office. She’d noticed his enlivened tone when he’d declaimed the woman as a tart for going to a belly dance class – a belly dance class of all things!

The comment had made Sandra pick up her ears – partly because she could tell that his interest was obviously piqued and whilst Sandra had long since ceased to care about his betrayals, she was canny enough to realise that it was wise to keep track for her own self-preservation. But she had also been curious about belly dancing. It conjured up tantalising images of raven haired beauties, barely covered in diaphanous silks, bejewelled and sequined, trailing seductively over the shoulders and sexual appetites of their male audience.  She almost smelt the heady scent of desire, the mystery of decadence, the pounding beat of the drum as the dancer flicked and shook her hips and breasts to its rhythm – the rhythm of sweat and thrust and sex. She shivered slightly in excitement. That was something she hadn’t experienced in a very long while. She crept to the bedroom door and listened silently for a few minutes. There was no sound at all below. He was either still deeply immersed in the stuffy news print or he’d dozed off. Either way, she could.

She stripped her shapeless woollen top off, dragging it over her head roughly, and hastily let her tracksuit pants drop around her ankles like a puddle. Hidden carefully at the back of her wardrobe, underneath an old dress, was the outfit. It was skimpy and exciting. She slid into it, smoothing the soft transparent drape of the skirt over her hips, running her hands down to her thighs, and then swinging them slightly, luxuriating in the way the fabric fell against her bodies outline, hiding it, but revealing all. She sighed with satisfaction, wriggled her shoulders slightly in a shimmy, making her breasts rub against each other exuberantly, bubbling over the top of the tiny sequined bra. She smiled.

She’d joined a class, you see. The lure had been too much and once she’d started thinking about it, she couldn’t put the thought aside, no matter how hard she tried. She’d gone during the day when he was at work or on a Saturday morning when he thought she was doing the shopping. She’d practiced hard. She’d mastered the dips and the drops, the shimmering vibrations of the body layered onto staccato movements of the hips as they flicked and twitched in a wicked invitation to touch, no don’t touch! The fluid undulations and rotations, mimicking the impression of riding a camel, or some other beast, as her body circled and enticed, come here, join, entwine…Slow and tantalising, wild and whirling, graceful and floating, with a myriad of veils divested, one by one as the various layers of the human psyche are divested from the loftiest and most philosophical thoughts – the cool blue veil – to the earthiness of physical desire and need – the red veil…

She dropped the blood red veil to the floor in a swirl. The dance had finished. She breathed heavily. Yes, she would perform well tomorrow evening…

More to follow next week …

Follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Debbie-Martin-author-and-writer/290947497649847

and on my website:

www.debbie@debbiemartin.co.uk

where you’ll find lots more to read and information when my books are published.

Debbie Martin

The first post – meet Mary …
April 19, 2012

Beyond the page, and into another world?

Is this life the only one we lead, or is there another that we can also live in when we go beyond the pages of the book, and into the world of our imagination.

Not an imagined one, but a real one borne out of our imagination …

Chapter 1:  Marys’ Little Secret

Ordinary Mary: plain Mary. Just Mary. No-one noticed her; no-one asked after her; no-one was interested in her. She just plodded on from day to day. Was Mary bothered? No. Why not?  Mary had a secret – and one even she didn’t understand then.

It was the book.

The first time, she was taken by surprise. She opened the book and there she was, in the middle of the forest. It was dark and quiet, with just the occasional snap of a twig as an animal crossed the pine needles carpeting the forest floor. She looked around slowly, and then spun around to take in the whole scene. The Douglas pines towered above her, making her giddy from craning to see their tops. She gasped in amazement, exhilarated, excited, afraid, and the next moment she found herself catapulted back into her chair with a hard jolt. The impact made her shudder and feel sick, like she’d just staggered off a fairground ride.

She drew a deep breath and looked around. Same old threadbare armchair, same dark red velvet curtains, same old leaf pattern carpet. The very familiarity was a comfort but also a strange disappointment. Mary shook her head, trying to clear it, then, rubbed her hands over her face before taking them away to see if the vista had changed again. No, it was the same. She was totally confused. She looked at the book in her lap, which had now fallen shut. It was old and rusty brown, made of tooled leather, with thick gilt edge pages. She’d bought it from the second-hand bookshop today. Nothing remarkable, it had just somehow found her hand on the shelf, and although she’d been looking for some cheap popular fiction to while away the autumn evenings, she’d found herself taking it to the till, paying for it, transporting it home carefully and sitting down with it without even unpacking her shopping or taking off her coat. She re-opened it, trying to find the same chapter. She remembered it – unimaginatively called merely Chapter 5 ‘The Forest’. She flicked through the pages until she reached the end of chapter 4, without reading any of the words.

Here we go, Chapter 5… But Chapter 5 wasn’t entitled ‘The Forest’. It read ‘If on an autumn day…’She flicked through more pages and more chapters, forward and back, still finding no chapter entitled ‘The Forest’. The nearest she came to it was ‘The Little Pine Tree’, but then on trying to revisit it, even that was nowhere to be found.

‘This is ridiculous!’ exclaimed Mary to herself. ‘I know that’s what it was called.’

She slammed the book down on the side table. She was irritated. She’d not wanted to buy the book in the first place. Whatever had got into her? She stood wearily and took off her coat, carefully putting it on its hanger in the wardrobe so it wouldn’t lose its shape. Then she pulled off her sensible, winter boots, and put them in their place on the bottom shelf. It hadn’t really been cold enough for them today as the sun had made a late appearance by midday, making everyone sweat and strip off their layers. Mary couldn’t strip any off. She had nothing else to wear so she’d spent the day sweltering in her boots and now her feet were quite puffy. The cool around her ankles as they were suddenly almost bare was wonderful.

She padded out to the kitchen in her stockinged feet – almost unheard of for Mary. ‘Now’t on yer feet? Catch yer death,’ her old mum would have said, but Mum wasn’t here to tell her what to do now.  A little frisson of rebellion shivered through her. Instead of padding back to put on her slippers, she remained on the icy kitchen floor, clenching and unclenching her toes, feeling, as if for the first time, the delicious cold hard floor under them, and the almost wanton sensation of having virtually nothing on. Momentarily she stayed like, revelling in this curious new experience until the chiming of the grandmother clock made her jump. She started and looked down. ‘Whatever am I doing!’ she exclaimed under her breath.

The rest of the evening followed Mary’s routines. Normally she would read for a while before turning out the light. Habit prevailed. She reached for the book nearest to her on the bedside table and encountered the tooled leather book again. She stopped in surprise. She hadn’t remembered bringing it into her bedroom. The last thing she remembered was leaving it on the side table in the lounge after trying to find ‘The Forest’ chapter. She was about to take hold of it and flip it open to see where the pages fell open now, but something in her said ‘No, put it down. Not tonight; that’s for tomorrow…’ Her arm hovered. The battle between instinct and routine raged within, then for the second time today, routine lost and instead Mary flicked off the light, turned on her side and fell asleep almost immediately…

More to follow next week …

Follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Debbie-Martin-author-and-writer/290947497649847

and on my website:

http://www.debbiemartin.co.uk/

where you’ll find lots more to read and information when my books are published.

Debbie Martin