My love for the increasingly sexy phenomenon that is FridayPhrases is well documented here on this little blog – I even composed my dearest a love letter which, if you’re of a mind to, you can read here.
But it’s Valentine’s Day (or will be, or is, or was, depending on when you’re reading this) and by way of acknowledging the hugely positive influence FP has had on my work, I’m reposting some romantically horrible and horribly romantic little pieces that our weekly dates have inspired.
Perhaps, in the not-at-all-forced-or-manufactured spirit of the day, I should take the easy way out and close with a quote stolen from a movie, a “You had me at hello.” or a “You complete me.”, some line that might come close to showing my appreciation for FP, but all I can do is customise something that Jack Nicholson says to Helen Hunt in As Good As It Gets. If I was to retool a quote to illustrate how amazing FP and the talent of its increasing company of contributors actually is, it would be this one – a line about those times when something in your life gives you the kick you need and motivates you to raise the bar … and keep going.
“You make me want to be a better writer.”
He leaned into her long, dark hair, loving her, breathing her in. Formaldehyde was as the sweetest rose to him.
The guy behind the bar had a scar on his face that I recognised. I bought him a drink and we talked. He told me that she’d branded us all.
He never forgot her birthday, sent flowers every year. Two days after his funeral, he delivered a spray of orchids by hand.
I was excited to hear my blind date was a fellow Geek, but feared a slight misunderstanding when she bit the head off the chicken.
“Of course I love you,” he said. “I’d take a bullet for you, babe.” She pulled out the gun. “Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”
“Darling,” he breathed. “I never want this night to end.”
“Neither do I,” She smiled. “But we’re almost out of corpses. Get the car.”
I thought I had snuffed the flame, but the simple ignition of holding her hand made us combustible all over again.
She played the song and waited at the pottery wheel every day, but he never came back. In Hell, the Devil forced him to watch her weep.
He tied her to the bed. She seemed nervous but excited. She didn’t see the blade. He smiled, anticipating at least 50 shades of red.
She had been cold, manipulative, but he had once carried a torch for her. Now he used it to set her hair ablaze.
30 minutes, 40 … The coffee he’d bought grew cold. She was late again, she was always late. And because it was her, he always waited.
It was a great party. She and I danced all night. Only when I saw myself alone on the photos did I know I had waltzed with a vampire.
A portrait of a night walk, and you? A glimpse of moonlit skin and eyes that turn grey leaves to green, black and white to colour.
She had beauty AND brains. I saw the beauty when we met, and the brains when she came to my place for dinner.
Lips against lips. Clothes against clothes. Skin against skin. Skin against fur. The she-wolf dined well that night.
Almost dawn. A Bagpuss dressing-gown, flip-flops, panda-eyes, her hair teased into sleep-crazed corkscrews. He thought her beautiful.
He told her that day she was beautiful, but when she pulled a seatbelt across her middle that night she still worried she looked fat.
She moved to the box, swearing to unleash all the horrors of reality upon him. He smiled, knowing he’d hidden the remote well.
Time doesn’t blunt the hurt. I see their unformed faces in the rain, in the dust, in the long shadows of an empty hour.
The jarred needle skipped; our dance went on. She grew heavy in my arms. As the song ended, my supper and I shared a bloodstained kiss.
Much of it I wish I could forget, but not her smile through a dirty bus window, an unexpected wave filling the moment with light.
He’d unglued his eyes on the way home. They stared at her, white as scar tissue, staying open as she kissed his sewn-up lips.
More of my #FP scribblings: