A man in a coat
Poured whisky into a glass
Trapped in by the rain
The bar was crowded
All around him people talked
Hunched over his drink
He glanced to his right
The rain pounded the window
He refilled his drink
The barman knew him
He lets him keep the bottle
Only when it rains
The rain keeps him in
So he drowns himself in booze
The sun dries him out
The rain keeps, he stands
Leaves fifteen quid and a tip
Walks between the rain
And now; a haiku
Five syllables, seven, five
The rules are simple
I need a subject
So I can give this haiku
Some needed substance
Haiku’s stand alone
Three pithy lines and no more
But I like stories
Good, I think that’s it
Haiku’s are pretty easy
I am a turtle
And now I’ve had a practice I’ll turn my hand to the dark and horrid world my writing normally inhabits – Walk Between the Rain (a short Haiku story)
She tipped her hat against the wind and squinted through the rain
Her life was a novella of pulp in a moonlit motion picture of class
Her high heels kicked through puddles that reflected street lights
The book in her bag was damp from intruding weather
Her coat held closed, her umbrella shielded her lipstick from the thunder
The lightning flashed, silhouetting her shadow against the passing cars
A busker stood against a wall emptying water from his guitar
A bottle of wine stood safe on her kitchen counter
The coke in her bag gave a clue to her hurried trot through the streets
The dwindling spring in her mind was racing to indulge some more
Men in pubs behind her spread rumours about her allure
Her legs were food for their hormonal hunger
At last she arrived home and discarded her twisted umbrella in the garden
She fished for her keys with dripping hands and unlocked the front door
Inside she fell against the wall and stumbled into her lounge
She paid the babysitter and put on a record
She carved out her last lines on an old record sleeve. It was a Bob Dylan vinyl
She laid back on her couch and fumbled with her backie to roll a cigarette
With no money left she used a straw to snort the last particles of white
She kicked off her shoes and pulled off her dress
Sprawled naked in the bath she let the hot shower rinse off her soiled elegance
A wine glass toiled between her fingers. She hummed a half remembered tune
She had the sense of mind to towel before she crawled to bed
She slept for an hour before her daughter cried her awake.
God damn. Birthdays. Who’s idea was it to celebrate this shit every fucking year? It should be a day of mourning. One year older, one year wiser, and that year always starts with a hangover worse than any that came before. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for two hours trying to work out how to get out of bed. I used to be able to do this. I remember doing it yesterday. But right now it seems impossible. My phone keeps beeping at me, like a terrorist trying to destroy my half-awake dream-like madness. I live in an attic flat so the ceiling is only two feet away from me. I grab on to it, to stop it spinning. The phone beeps again. I turn and look at it. “Alright fucker, you win.” I say, and reach over and grab it. I have the motor skills of a yeti. I unlock the phone and reality crashes through the screen. It beeps again. “Wake up you sonofabitch!” is what that beeping means.
I crawl, in my underwear, to the bathroom and put my head in the bath. I run the tap and frighten myself awake with the freezing water that pounds my skull. Dressing gown, where are you? You genius brilliant peace of attire. I find it behind the door and climb in.
In the kitchen I fill the kettle to the top. It boils. I make one cup of instant coffee, half full with milk so I can down it, and then fill the cafetiere to the top and sit down with it on the sofa. I put sugar and milk straight into it and drink directly out of the spout.
I turn on the TV but Hollyoaks comes on and blazes its tragic fucking nonsense into to mind just long enough to reinforce the fear I have of bad soap operas. A horrible disdain is awaken in me and I am, by some miracle, prevented from throwing the remote at the TV in a bid to kill the drama (it must be the coffee waking up the normal rational man that dwells somewhere inside of me) and I turn the fucker off instead, like any sensible human would.
I open the laptop and start writing about my morning. And now I’m here, typing. And who is weirder? Me for thinking anyone would find this shit interesting, or you for reading it?
Andrew Chapman / Author and Screenwriter 