The Bullet

When will that elusive one turn up, when will that gun be fired and the bullet caught between the teeth? Lord, the government and the guy who works at the supermarket only knows. I’m sure they don’t really, but saying it makes me feel better. A long time spent on a short trip, that’s what it feels like, the long way round to the shops. Three times. Make that four. And then you forget to buy the tea bags, so you have to go back. Twice. Oh life what twisted fun you must be having with us all. Glad you’re enjoying yourself, leave the back door unlocked for me, would you? Thanks, you’re a star. SH.

If Only

Of all the McDonalds in all of the world, she had to walk into mine. It had been a full two months since the business in the countryside, and only now, once every day rather than once a minute did her face ever stampede into my mind, like a herd of wilder beast, and I had called myself quite settled. I was sat to the side, but quite near the front, so could see who came in and I could see who ordered. I myself was on a steady diet consisting of a large chocolate shake and an similarly named potato prepared side. I was at the end of my fries and was fishing at the bottom of the brown bag they had been sat in, searching for thy cheeky bonus you usually find, a few stray chiplets that have dived out of their red and yellow cardboard home. It's at a time when you think you've had the last, but a quick rummaged gifts you a welcome little surprise. But today, as if a precursor, the fortune telling fries, there was nothing at the bottom of my bag but emptiness. And then she walked in. Irony complete. What was it first that I noticed if not just her essence? It wasn't a mere feature as it was the conglomerate. If held to sword point I'd say it was the hair that first set it off. But on the canvas of a Van Gogh is it not the brightest colour that the admirer is first drawn to? Then the rest of her being flew into the space like a rushing skylark, simply beautiful. Her eyes did not see me but there presence was never a tone to be avoided, as it rang through the air so sharply, the sight of them both filled up my stomach and emptied out my lungs, a withered shell repaired now faced with what it was that shattered it in the first place. My skin contracted in a million different ways and the crackling fireworks retuned to my veins. I have no recognition nor inclination of how her head might have risen if she had seen me that day, if anything, and most likely, not at all. But all this was there for but an instant, a pure second, a fair blip that flashed indeed months of feelings all by my minds eyes with insurmountable speed but for an infinitesimal crumb of time. It was over. That was how things would most certainly stay. Time to get along with my day.

About A Girl

I want a girl who wears black t-shirts ... silver shoes and blue tights.
A girl who swears without swearing.
Who cries when she wants to and also when she doesn't.
Whose eyes turn the others away, and reel me in on home.
Who laughs when she shouldn't, and smiles when no one else will.
Who sings in the supermarket at the top of her voice.
Who runs from everything, but is afraid of nothing.

Of The Girl

I want a girl who wears black t-shirts ... silver shoes and blue stockings.
A girl who swears without swearing.
Who cries when she wants to and also when she doesn't.
Whose eyes turn the others away, and reel me in on home.
Who laughs when she shouldn't, and smiles when no one else will.
Who sings in the supermarket at the top of her voice.
Who runs from everything, but is afraid of nothing.
Who tells me the truth, even when I don't want her to.
Who knows it's only just rain.
Who walks like she means it.
Who forgives but doesn't forget.
Who bangs her head to every thick drum beat.
Who has a jacket made of red cotton.
Who speaks like a thunderstorm and sounds like a rainbow.
Who is just around the corner. SH

Staring Down The Sun

"Hi."
"Hi."
Not knowing, then knowing. The strangeness was dispelled and the familiarity pitched.
"Didn't I see you this morning?" said she.
"Ah ... I believe you may have, yes," said he with his voice, while the rest of the dissident's internal capacities ignited and flamed, a gentle warmth now spreading everywhere.
"Looking for a new dress?" she said. His eyebrows darted together and confusion beset. He looked up. Then he looked around. While possessing eyes for naught but her, unbeknownst to him he had wandered into the women's clothing section on that floor of the department store.
"Ah - yeah - I'm just browsing, actually." Her face was painted in neutral tones, despite the obvious inference that the supremacy was with her. She could have chosen to wither him right there and then, but she did not. How can this be possible? he thought instantly. She stood out to him like a blazing lighthouse on a single dark hill in a single dark night. Not just beautiful, beautiful didn't cover it. He could have spent a lifetime writing that word over and over and over again down on endless sheets of paper, and still it would not match what he sought to now describe, to feebly put into words she which stood before him. S.H.

Where Two Oceans Meet

The unavoidable position left no room for his initial reactions to be fulfilled. The drums were thunderous explosions, the sound waves echoing off the inside walls of his skull. She turned and the air rippled, the tottering surrounds oblivious to the effect. Her hair it moved like she was underwater. All on the outside looked calm among him but for the symphony of clatter that coursed its way around his body. Her eyes looked up and the atmosphere froze, the air itself seemingly ceasing to be. A second past. No more than a second of time elapsed and he was held firmly in place for a year. It felt like even longer. Her eyes of forever held his face with soft hands that could not be shaken nor moved. The drums ceased. Everything ceased. And the one shinning thought that now filled his head was "what the bloody hell do I do now?" S.H.

Jungle Drum

The drums began to tap in the distance, gradually building up their volume like an approaching train. The dissident looked for somewhere to hide, an instinctive reaction, and tried his best not to unsettle his head. The figure drifted closer, but still she did not see him. There were enough clothes racks and shinny shelves to help him blend, the constant buzz of beings helping his cause. She moved closer still. He tried his best to think like paint, to become part of the scenery and melt into the walls, a white boy on the white wash. He had noticed her in an instant, his body realising before his brain. The sight of her face from afar enough to squeeze his heart like a sponge. His skin crackled and shifted its nervous weight with alarming fervour, his blood thundering around his veins with exactly the same idea as to what to do with itself as he. S.H.

For Love Or Money?

Some time ago I decided that I would do what I enjoyed as work, even if it wasn't the highest paying or most sparkling of status positions. The work I do DOES enable me to look after myself, save money and do just about what I want within reason. I won't be buying a brand new beamer or owning that six bedroom home in Hertfordshire any time soon, but I've gotten along alright in the past.
The problem I find myself being readily confronted with is what will happen a decade or so down the track. Will I still be content with enjoying what I do, even if it means I have to scrimp and save a little in order to support my future family? Or will I HAVE to reeducate and up or even change completely my qualifications in order to get that "real job"?
I guess the crux of my query is this - is a guy's salary really a big pull or deterrent to a girl?
Add to the pot that what I do is not considered a "regular" occupation for a guy to have (for the record, I work with kids) and I have had many a girl who has turned the other way when she has found out my status among the career world.
Unfortunately, all this means that now more than ever I am faced with a simple question - do I continue to do what I love, with the risk that I will never be taken seriously by another as a future other half? Or do I change my ideas radically and go for the practical option, get another qualification and start doing a job that I may not enjoy as much, but at least I'll be able to park that new BMW in the front drive of my six bedroom house?
It all comes down to one. Does the higher flying job and larger salary package really mean that much? (We're not talking about the difference between being flat broke and a millionaire here. It's more the difference between having a second hand Toyota Corolla or a brand spanking new Mercedes C Class). Or is it really true that as long as there is love, you can always find a way to make it work no matter what? S.H.

Nice Guys Finish Last

Reading a post from one of my kind followers, I have been inspired to communicate a little information concerning the issue of dating. More especially I mean the "finding of one's other". According to most contrary and otherwise opinions, it's hard as hell. This is a sentiment I would have to concur with. From my extensive research, I have concluded that there really does seem to be an overwhelming amount of awesome girls out there. The problem seems to be though, is that somehow the douche bags somehow manage to get to them first. Why is this so? It's surely not universally true, but there seems to be a startlingly high percentage of this occurrence taking place.
I get the image that a lot of girls seem to go for a more volatile guy because it makes things a bit more interesting, but is this really true? The phrase "nice guys finish last" really does seem to ring true. However, on the other hand I have heard of many situations where a girl would like nothing but someone who is good to them. Sure, they've got to be interesting, I think that works both ways, but nice is nice. It's one of many attributes the right guy should have in order to find the right girl. But seemingly, this just doesn't work. Could it be that what a girl is attracted to and what she really wants in the deep pools of her heart are two utterly different things? I've had a friend or two (who happen to be girls, mind you) say that the "looking" for someone doesn't work, and to an extent I agree. I think you still have to put yourself in the situations where you can "not look" for someone, but then don't you have to show initiative as well? I'm a big believer in that if you want something you have to go out there and get it. Were as this has proved a sound philosophy to everything else I have accomplished so far, could it be that it does not apply to the single thing that is number one on the list of needs and wants anyway, above all other goals?
There should be a website called "I'm a nice person dot com". It should be a place where nice people are selected by an independent judge that flies around the world and signs off on everyone that wants to join the site. There are plenty of sites out there as it is, but somehow I really don't think internet dating is the way forward. I could be wrong. I could be wrong about everything on the subject. That conclusion would at least explain why I'm still in the same boat as all those other hopeful, not desperate, but hopeful singles out there, patiently waiting for the lightening bolt to strike them down with a vengeance, the smile on their face never so wide for such a bout of electricity to be running like wild horses through their veins. S.H.

The Supermarket Thing

Does the supermarket thing really work? You know the score. You're walking along, minding your own business in the deli section when before your view there slides one of the most charming looking girls, or as the case may be, guy, that you have seen in recent memory. You clear your throat with sandpaper comfort and set about chancing introductions. "Oh, fancy that, we use the same brand of cottage cheese. Shall we go out?" Of course I now it's probably not that simple. But then again, it might be. The question that remains for me is wether or not it is humanly possible for humans. This is excluding Brad Pitt and and any other demigod of the netherworld, that is. I have a friend that assures me it is defiantly possible. But when you look like he does, it's more probable that HE'S the one getting approached by nervous produce wielding beauties. Mind you, this is also the same friend that suggested that in order to take it to the next plateau with my then girlfriend of four weeks, that I book a hotel room without telling her and then end our day's date by saying "I've got us a room. Let's go." Maybe that would have worked. But maybe not. The supermarket thing works in movies. But everything works in movies.
Back to the main thread, and IF this all works. Well, I'm sure it does. But I'm even more sure that it's not normal people that manage to pull this seemingly unsurmountable feat off. It's done by these chiselled characters with mythical good looks. It's done by the Populars and their scudded accomplices.
Aside from anything else I think common decency holds ME back. I just don't think anyone wants another person to creep up behind them while they are trying to make the ever important decision of wether to get smoked or regular bacon. I just don't think it's good manners. But then again, what's manners when the magnetic field begins to wail? What does common decency matter when your favourite song begins to play over the supermarket loud speakers, seemingly spurring you on in an oh so spiritual way. That's how it happens in the movies. Maybe that's how it happens in real life too? S.H.

Interpretation

Okay. Give me your interpretation of this situation. A guy walks into a clothing shop. He's only looking, probably has no real intention of buying anything unless it's really cheap, you know, a real bargain. The store is fairly empty of other shoppers, one or two of them perusing the wares on display. There are two female sales assistants. One of them is behind the counter, the other busily restocking a nearby rack. Now, the guy, remember him? Well, he mills around a bit, and in doing so passes the counter. The girl behind it gifts him a smile. The guy returns the gesture and walks on, his back now to the counter. The girl continues to follow him with her gaze. The guy knows this because he can feel her eyes on the back of his head, like delicate fingers running through his hair. Sure enough, as the guy rounds the edge of the shop and catches the girl in the edge of his view, she hands him another smile, before offering an unheard comment to her coworker. Now the coworker throws a quick look at the guy too. At that moment, someone approaches the counter to make a purchase and the attention of the two sales assistants in redirected. The guys leaves the store.
So, should the guy have waited around until the other shopper had made their purchase? Or was the sales assistant behind the counter just being generally friendly? S.H.

Girl at the Bus Stop

I remember the dead leaves the most. Hundreds of thousands of them, strewn all over the street. Puddles of leaves, small hillocks of the little bastards. All forgotten and blown away. They made the footpath somewhat more difficult to navigate along I will concede, but the faces of them were brilliant. A hundred shades of brown. Who'd have thought a colour like that could be so eloquent?
So, Leeds it was, and towards the city centre that I rambled. Earphones in ears and thoughts being thought. If it hadn't of been for the smile I would have missed her completely. I only turned just in time to see it. Black hair too. Indescribable black hair. She was waiting at the bus stop alone and I was walking past it alone. I returned it of course, the smile, with a feeble attempt of my own, but wether she took in its full meaning I will be eternally uncertain of. Five paces now separated us, then ten. By the fifteenth I turned my eyes back in the direction of the bus stop, only for them to be greeted by a large movie poster behind a perspex sheet. A pair of shoes and a pair of ankles were just visible below the poster, in the space between the bottom edge of the bus shelter wall and the uneven ground. Apart from the familiar black hair I remember only one other thing. She was nice. I knew she was nice, i just knew it.
"Go back," said my stomach.
"You can't now," my brain said back. S.H.