Burst Bubbles

[Delta40]

ok this is a rewrite of something else I posted here. I'm trying to get more involved with using the senses as a way of making my writing come alive. I would appreciate commentary about this. thanks


Burst Bubbles
The guest punctuated each word with their hands, ‘Them little uns never had a bad childhood and ahm done talkin’ about it.’
What a dumb way to sound stuff. But that was how people often talk on Dr Phil. And even if the twang sounded like an out of tune banjo, the sentiment rang true for the middle aged woman who watched. She absently drew the terry cloth dressing gown across her chest as the guest continued talking.
‘Ah tell ya Doc, them mites grew up on nothin more than Disco Duck and tv dinners! They ain’t ever had good ol’ home cookin!’
The delighted audience laughed as Dr Phil smirked. A stab of remembrance shot through the viewer. She took a large gulp of her cheap red wine and grimaced.
Did anyone really care about Disco Duck, she wondered. She let the old gown slip open and she rubbed a spot on her cheek almost fretfully. Another gulp of the heady wine. Slowly, the television sounds droned into meaningless pap and her jaw slackened. Her own melded images triggered a distant memory, complete with moth balls and dust.

When she was Eleven, her Father would collect her from school on Fridays and after dinner they would drive to the Beacon Inn where her mum worked as a barmaid. Strapped in the Kingswood wagon, the faint smell of oil and grease was present as Disco Duck pounded out on the cassette player. At the traffic lights, Loud, raucous quack quack sounds and arm flapping erupted from her father, which made her laugh so hard, everything in the world became colourfully blurred. She remembered his hands, big and bony, tapping to the beat on the steering wheel.

Friday Nights at the Inn was balloon night. The purple carpet in the lounge disappeared under a stream of rainbow coloured balloons. It was the perfect place for a child to crouch down and hide. Her father mussed her hair while she relished the crunch and fizz of her coke and chicken flavoured chips. ‘Careful you don’t lose yourself in there, precious. Just pop a balloon if you do and I’ll come running.’ He kissed her then disappeared to the bar with her mum. As she sank beneath the array to explore her imaginative child world, the smell of tobacco, perfume and whiskey was the only reminder of the one she was escaping from. ‘You’re Slipping Away From Me’ played softly in the background. Above her, slow swaying bodies, pressed against each other, danced their song of love. A Disco light softly lit the patterned wallpaper in red green yellow and blues giving a sense of surreality. Scurrying on all fours like mischievous pups, other children sniggered and giggled at grown up behaviour. From the sanctuary of her secret space, she was not so young that her heart didn’t feel the pulse of love weaving its web across the lounge. As the night wore on, she watched her Mum and Dad covertly and felt all was well in her dimly lit kingdom.

Then, in the smoky, heady atmosphere, it happened. She lost herself amongst the balloons. A rough, large hand thrust its way into her world. It yanked her out and pulled her against a body that stunk of sharp acrid sweat and Blue Stratos. Her hot flushed cheek felt the scratchy rough cotton which slid loosely across his chest. Her eyes stared wildly, seeing nothing but the moving colours winding their way across the walls of the lounge as her heart rate rose.
‘You be nice to grown-ups now. Remember what I’ve told you!’ hissed his warning in her ears.

Amidst the powerful intense music of ‘Love Hurts, a stark terror raised its ugly head like an ugly monster in the sea of balloons. Panic rose in a chest too small to contain it. Breathless gulping and dry swallowing threatened to overwhelm. Didn’t she learn in First Aid something about the uses of a brown paper bag?

The smell of alcohol choked her small frame nearly as firmly as his grip was. Her guts churned like a mixer one way, while her bladder filled and instantly tried to empty. She desperately wanted to pop a balloon but she felt like a lead weight held her there. She shuddered then briefly became still like a rabbit mesmerised by headlights as he let out a deep he-groan. Her solid body was transformed into water when he panted hotly across her fear stricken face, ‘I want you so much.’

The aging life struggled to surface and tear open her eyes. Her body spilled across the old couch which was too small to accommodate her. The wine glass lay empty on its side.

The audience clapped and cheered. Doctor Phil’s Texan accent cut through her mental fog: ‘How’s that workin’ for ya?’

She shook her head, found the remote and switched the television off. The cat looked at her unblinking. No answers there. She rubbed her worn cheek and slowly sank between worlds once more. Somewhere, she imagined she heard a ‘bang!’
:yawnb:

[Delta40]

Lillith watched the performance on her television. Each word was clutched tightly, like precious drawn straws. ‘No siree. I’m done talkin’ bout it.’ The aging cowboy's nasal twang resembled an out of tune banjo, yet the sentiment rang true. She absently drew the terry cloth dressing gown across her chest.
‘Ah tell ya Doc,’ he drawled, ‘Them mites grew up on nothin more than Disco Duck and tv dinners! They ain’t ever had good ol’ home cookin!’ He tipped the brim of his ten gallon hat and crossed mulish arms. The hungry audience lapped up the act as Dr Phil smirked. A stab of remembrance shot through Lillith. She gulped her cheap red wine and grimaced.
In the attic of her mind, Disco Duck echoed faintly downwards and intensified in volume. She let her tatty gown slip open as she fretfully rubbed a spot on her cheek. Another guzzle of the heady wine. Dr Phil droned into meaningless pap and her jaw slackened. Melded images teased forward the distant tune till Lillith’s memory strands, complete with moth balls, unfolded.

Her Dad, known as Mick the mechanic, finished late on Friday so Aunt Carol cooked savoury mince. Lillith swallowed the compost of spiced meat and frozen vegetables by holding her nose. Her spirits grew wings when she heard the backfire of the Kingswood wagon spluttering in the driveway. Lillith held the frayed safety belt across her lap like her Dad showed her as they drove to the Beacon Inn where her mum served drinks to a weary working class. Oil and grease wafted around the blaring notes of Disco Duck. At the traffic lights, loud, raucous quack quacks and arm flapping erupted from her Dad, like the black grey smoke billowing from the exhaust. Lillith laughed hard, her vision went blurry. Mick’s hands, grimy and calloused, tapped to the beat on the steering wheel so that his cigarette ash tumbled onto the seat.

At the Inn, the soiled purple carpet in the lounge had disappeared under a stream of rainbow coloured balloons. In the far corner, the jukebox played love songs.
‘Careful you don’t get lost in there, precious.’ She pulled his sideburns so Mick rasped his whiskered chin across her soft cheek till Lillith squealed. ‘Pop a balloon if you get lost and I’ll come running ok?’
Intertwined bodies, weaved clandestine songs of love. A rotating light added to the mood by glowing upon patterned wallpaper to reveal gentle suggestions of red, green, yellow and blues.
Lillith relished the crunch and fizz effect of coke and chicken chips by dipping the rough crinkled morsels into her drink and savouring the soggy mush tang. Her legs swung carefree from the stool while she blew drink bubbles through her straw.
‘You’re Slipping Away From Me’ began when Lillith floated down dreamlike into the sea of balloons and sank beneath the array to explore her imagined world. The stale smell of tobacco, musky perfume and whiskey reminded her of the place above. Below, the carpet felt lumpy and coarse against her bare knees. The balloons bobbled as a freckled boy, on his own secret mission, scampered past.
From the sanctuary of her sacred space, Lillith could feel the pulse of love weaving its web across the lounge. She observed her parents covertly through the festoon of balloons and captured the precious intimate glances which two people exchange when they think nobody is looking. Her dimly lit kingdom was enchanted with affection.

Then, in the smoky atmosphere, a rough, large hand thrust through the shelter. Lillith was heaved against a hard body that reeked of sweat and Blue Stratos. The cotton of his King Gee shirt was thin and the clammy dampness of his upper torso was pressed against her cheek. Lillith stared wildly, seeing only the radiance of colours coiling their way around the walls of the lounge as her heart rate hammered.
‘You be nice to grown-ups now,’ the husky menace warned. ‘Remember what I’ve told you!’

Lillith’s insides imploded, plummeted to the basement and immediately surfaced as a hideous monster in the ocean of balloons. The soulful sound of ‘Love Hurts’ echoed through the lounge as the monster expanded in a chest just too small to contain it. The stench of alcohol and Blue Stratos suffocated her as powerfully as his grip. Lillith’s puff train breathing didn’t stop her short fingers scrabbling a lifeline balloon to pop loudly just like her Dad said. Her body twirled like a doll in the colour, the music using its glue-like substance to keep her face adhered to the folds of his shirt in the dark, hazy atmosphere. Lillith was a frozen scream that could not wrench itself free. Her guts blended her intestines, while her bladder gushed full then blocked as it released like Niagara. The Blue Stratos man caressed her curly red tresses and let out a throbbing he-groan. Lillith shuddered, then became still as a wild rabbit mesmerised by car headlights. She felt his rough stubble rub along her cheek as he crouched in the balloons. He panted hotly into her plundered soul, ‘I want you so much'.

Her solid body transformed into watery collapse.

Lillith splashed to the surface. Her body spilled across the shabby leather couch which was too small to accommodate her. The wine glass lay empty on its side.

The audience clapped and cheered. Doctor Phil’s Texan accent cut through her mental fog: ‘How’s that workin’ for ya?’

‘It isn’t’ she croaked to Tommy the cat who returned her gaze unblinking. ‘It definitely isn’t.’ Dr Phil no longer invited further thought once she flicked the remote. In the afternoon hush, her thumb slowly stroked her cheek, her gown still open. Once more she sank between worlds. As she slipped under, Lillith imagined she heard a resounding ‘Pop!’

The End