purplesimon

Hibernation

2011-11-28T10:44:00.003Z

In case you wondered, this blog is currently in hibernation.

Not dead, not dying. Sleeping.

I also blog about advertising and digital over on purplesime's ponderings.

Tea

2010-09-29T16:55:00.002+01:00

We’re 15 years on now, a lot of water has passed under the bridge. Not that Harry was ever angry with his lot, the cards he was dealt or the pain he so obviously felt going through the 20-odd operations. Unlike Sarah, my aunt. Actually, not my real aunt, as in one of my parents’ sisters – Sarah was really an old school friend of my mother. And it was her scalding tea that splashed all over Harry’s face and upper body when he was just a babe in arms, a few months old. He couldn’t even walk, then, could hardly focus on what was going on around him. He must have been, what? Between a month and three months old? Three months at the very most.

I remember the screams. Not Harry’s, though, I think they were what you’d describe as a whimper. Shock, we found out later. The screams came from my mother; Sarah took in a huge gulp of breath and sat, open-mouthed. I took this opportunity to surreptitiously look up her skirt. She was wearing pink knickers. Frilly. In my defence, I was eight at the time. If that’s any kind of defence.

Meeting Jack

2010-06-03T16:46:00.008+01:00

Early evening and London was bustling as people left work and headed to the many bars that litter the streets of Clerkenwell. I was still sat at my desk, trying to turn the tumbling thoughts in my head into some coherent and solidifying entity. It wasn’t going well. I was feeling distracted, flitting between my document and Twitter.

I caught a glimpse of a post: a grand and potent threat. Another nutter, I presumed. I determined that goading this person would perhaps alleviate the challenges I was facing with my work. What seemed so wise then only heightens the stupidity I feel now.

Just a short message, that’s all. A joke, some people would call it. I didn’t give it a second thought as I stepped through the glass doors of my workplace. I darted across the road, the sharp beep of a taxi’s horn reverberating off the yellow brick buildings; I hurried down a side street, the buildings pressed so close together the sun makes only a rare appearance between the hours of 1403 and 1406.

That’s where he must have been hiding, out to shoot this messenger. Or at least cause him some harm. I recall the shiver I gave as his shadow crossed across my back; I faintly remember the sharp pain I felt at the base of my skull. After that, it’s a blank.

When I finally came to, I found myself strapped to a hard wooden chair. I was in small room with a tiny window up high on one wall, which allowed a trickle of sunlight in. My head was sticky with blood at the back and a fresh wound on my forehead was leaking a steady stream of red over my face. There was classical music playing; I think it was Mahler, but the memories are, even now, slightly hazy (I’ve since been sent a letter from Jack containing a link to this site and his name signed in blood – whose blood I know not, but I shudder to think it’s my own). I turned my head to the left and was faced with a hideous creature, a man I now know is Jack the Twitter.

My eyes slowly focused on his revolting form. Without provocation, he pressed his twisted face up against my own and began shouting in German. He switched to English, screaming about his mother. For hours this went on; I was unable to speak out, mostly from horror and shock but also from a parched throat that felt as if it had been burned with napalm and scraped with sandpaper. Occasionally, he would rise from his seat and begin a conversation with his mother, with her ghost. I pleaded with him in the rasp that my throat was able to accomplish, but to no avail.

But there was a light, a pinprick of light at the end of the darkest of tunnels: the straps had a little give in them. I knew, if I could survive this onslaught, I had a chance. A slim one but a chance all the same. This ranting, slathering, monster couldn’t possibly keep this level of ranting up. Surely he couldn’t? I was banking on this being true as I worked slowly to release the straps holding my legs and arms tight against the chair. I had time, I just didn’t know how much; would he lose his temper at me, cause me more pain, more damage? I prayed he wouldn’t.

I lost any notion of time during this episode, this madness. I may have fallen into unconsciousness at some point; I may have begged like a child wishing his parent would stop uncle Jimmy doing those things; I may have turned on the anger. All negotiations failed.

Without warning, he left the room. This was, quite possibly, my only chance. I pulled my wrists free, yanking at the straps to free my legs. I stumbled through the door, searching frantically for a way out. Through several doors I crashed, not caring if the noise brought my jailer forth. If I couldn’t break out then death was a consideration I would happily embrace. I was lucky, I finally broke out into the night. I ran, just ran.

The next moment I remember was the cold steps of this church where I’d collapsed, pressed against my face, the hands of a paramedic touching my neck to see if there was a pulse. There was pain in my back (the surgeon informed me this madman took some of my liver!), my head ached and my wrists were sore from the straps. Mostly, it was the visions that I couldn’t rid myself of.

I still wake most nights, the nightmares so horrible I cannot bring myself to describe them; the tickle of his facial hair against my cheek, the stench of his breath, the wild, unfocused eyes. It’s haunting me even now. My doctor assures me that, once my wounds have healed, so too will the abrasive thoughts which scour my brain.

But take heed from my tale, for I have been made an example of. I have many questions about my experience. I just never want to meet Jack again, to have an opportunity to ask them.

And I pray that he’ll never cross your path, either.

Find out more about Jack the Twitter or follow his Twitter feed.

Just found this

2010-02-10T15:59:00.003Z

The leaves were fluttering in the summer breeze, casting brittle shadows along the path as Jim and I rode our bikes down to the rec. We were both screaming our heads off, not just to release our youthful exuberance but also to warn anyone on the path of our imminent arrival; Jim had caused Mrs. Bothol a mild case of concussion last year, ploughing into her at top speed on his Raleigh Grifter. We’d been told by our parents to take more care before someone got killed.

Or something.

Because it was a something that caused Jim to spill it on the path on this particular day. I was following, at speed, too closely, so I wasn’t able to stop myself careering into Jim, my front wheel skimming the back of his head.

It says on the Word document that this was started in July last year. I may well expand it, but for now let this be my first post of 2010.

Five A’s

2009-11-08T20:38:00.002Z

Among the clothes of trees, tossed aside
All in heaps of brittle ingots,
A lone flower; petal sentinel.
A memory.
A scar.
A mark.

for Suzanne

The Sight Of Silence

2009-05-09T16:57:00.001+01:00

Stop. Just listen. You may need to hold your breath, the walls here in this apartment are thicker than your average 8-year old (if you believe the tabloids). Did you hear it? Footsteps; slippers on carpet. I can discern the static click as the man shuffles - yes, it's definitely a man, perhaps five eleven in height, weighs 170lbs, I'd wager. He's at the door of his apartment now three floors above mine and to the right; number 16 it is, the apartment. It's the last one in the block, top floor. The door lock is sticking. I can hear him twisting the handle (probably brass and rounded like all the others in the block, but I can’t be sure) back and forth, pulling hard to budge the door from the jamb. Finally, it gives. I can hear him wrench it open in one swift movement, but it doesn't put off his visitor who, perhaps, was expecting such a vicious action.

That was the beginning.

After that it all went quiet for a split second, followed by a sharp intake of breath. There was a distinct thump; the sound of a man slumping to the floor, a man who is five eleven in height (approximate) and around 170lbs.

Then the elevator groaned into life, struggling to lift itself from its sitting position on the ground floor. It’s the visitor that had called it; I recall catching the soft click of a finger pressing the call button. But they didn’t wait for it. It was covering the visitor’s own footsteps. If I concentrated I could pick the footsteps out; they were not rushed, but measured and confident. Black slip-on shoes with a worn down heel on the left foot. There was a squeak as their hand gripped the handrail of the back stairs, which they took two at a time. But by then my ears were drawn to the spreading of the blood, the thickening and pooling of Mr Gates’ life on his carpet. If he weren’t dying he’d be really pissed that his new carpet (laid last week, a Thursday – that was the 20th, wasn’t it?) was being sullied in such a way.

I counted 12 minutes and 15 seconds before the alarm was raised. A scream, sudden and shocking, even though I was half expecting it; another 20 minutes before you knocked on my door and, well, that brings us bang up-to-date, to the right now.

Did you get it all down? I can go over it again, should you need me to. I’m always here, except Tuesdays when Mrs Fowler from number 6 takes me shopping. It’s hard for me to do it on my own; I get swamped easily by the cacophony in the supermarket, the tannoy announcements, the metallic clatter of the trolleys, and the endless babbling of the shoppers (talking to themselves or to ‘friends’ they’ve bumped into and need urgently to exchange gossip with).

Is there anything else?

7 Things

2009-02-25T10:00:00.005Z

This short piece is in response to a request from Caffeine Goddess whose blog you really should read. You can follow her on Twitter, too.

Some of this is fiction, the seven listed items are fact (with some fiction rolled in to keep the thread going). Enjoy.

"Okay, I admit there have been some inconsistencies. But it's nothing major, get over it!" I eyeballed the doc over the oak desk; his fingers are tapping the green leather blotter, glasses slipping halfway down his nose. He inhales deeply, the grey nostril hair quivering like a cell's flagellum, and then speaks in his deep baritone voice.

"That's okay, we just need to check a few facts, make sure we've covered all the bases. Once that's sorted out you're free to go. Hmmm?"

"Sure. Yeah, sure." I reply. "Let's get on with it." I sit back. I know it's time to fill in the gaps. I don't want to stay in this sterile place any longer than I have to. Doc's pen is poised above his jotter; it's almost as if he's about to perform a surgical procedure rather than take notes. I close my eyes and start.

The following is taken from the notes of Doctor Michael Slater, MD on January 31st, 2009.

1. Before I got into my present career - that's a copywriter in the world of advertising - I had a number of career choices. I did kind of fall into this job, but I'll come to that later. I trained as a baker and chef after school. I enjoyed it, it was creative and I've always loved to cook. However, the wages and hours of the job were not compatible with my life. Who, at 19, wants to start work at 2am and finish at 2pm, only to have to find time to sleep, eat and socialise? Not this one. I took myself off to University and got a degree in Environmental Management. After graduation I moved to Bournemouth, Dorset and shared a house with a graphic designer. Through her, I got a gig writing for an English Language School and Bournemouth University's first website. I ran a design business for four years and then hauled myself back to London to make it in advertising. 9 years on I'm currently on an extended break from work. What happens next is anyone's guess. I do still help friends out with concepts and ideas and do a number of email newsletters to give me some spending money. You can hire me too.

2. I once wrote a novel of 120,000 words. It sucked. My friends were too polite to tell me that, but I read it myself and thought it amateurish. I'd like to be able to write something that compels someone to pay money for a book, but I'm not sure it's in me right now.

3. Considering I've done work for almost every car manufacturer in the world (except VW - come on guys, ask me!) I used to be a 'road protester'. I have camped in a tree, stood in front of diggers and probably broke the law several times over. In spite of my own ideals, I realise that I can't stop people driving and that any money I spend from earnings is always spent on better causes. In the past 5 years I've had over 200 trees planted in Scotland to help rejuvenate the ancient forests, even digging some holes myself while on honeymoon in the Highlands.

4. I hadn't used a PC until 2000, when, at my first job in London they sat me at a PC. I'd ever used a Mac and, too embarrassed to admit it, spent a considerable time trying to get it to move from a blank desktop screen with no shortcuts on it. In frustration, I started pressing keys from the left-hand bottom corner; the second one was the Start key. I probably blushed at that point and felt a right idiot. I still prefer Mac, but I'm not a Fan Boi in any sense. It's just what I started on and what feels most comfortable. If you love PCs, good for you.

5. I don't suffer fools. Gladly or otherwise. Some people probably think this makes me an arrogant twat. They are probably right. [Doctor's handwriting is illegible, but a comment is made at this juncture. We can only surmise it's not a positive one judging by the number of exclamation marks.]

6. I'm allergic to bananas. And glucose sugar (such that you find in fondant icing). I can eat sugar, but my skin is allergic to it. [Doc notes that these allergies have been certified by medical professionals. Another illegible comment appears after. No exclamation marks this time.]

7. I've been blessed by the Pope. Even though I'm not interested in religion, I was visiting the Vatican in 1994 and couldn't get in because I was wearing shorts. However, a kind person informed me the then Pope, John Paul II, blessed all visitors on a Wednesday morning at 5am if they were in the basilica. So, I got up very early, went along and had my head patted and some Latin mumbled at me by an old guy in robes. [Doctor's notes suggest he believes this to be an hallucination of some sort or an expression of a deep-seated love for religion. We know the Pope did bless a large public congregation on Wednesday mornings and that the subject spent almost two weeks in Rome in 1994, so there is no reason to believe he has made this up.]

This concludes the interview with the subject. The full transcript of the conversation has been lost, but we still have the paper published by Dr. Slater in Clinical Psychology 2009, titled "Enquiring the Inquiring Mind". Copies are available in the College Library, please ask at the Reference Desk.

THE RULES:

Link to your original tagger(s) and list these rules in your post.

Share seven facts about yourself in the post.

Tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names and the links to their blogs.

Let them know they’ve been tagged

Sincerely, I don't have 7 people I know who haven't been sent this request, so buck stops here. Why? Well, it's taken me almost two months to actually get around to this and in that time I think everyone has been sent this. Repeats are just so cable television I can't bring myself to stoop that low. Apology over.

Can Of Worms

2008-12-05T14:36:00.004Z

I didn’t need to notice the brooding clouds that tipped over the tops of the surrounding cliffs like peeping Toms to know that my chase was futile – or that I was in trouble. I was never going to catch Jack. Not only was he faster than me at clambering over the slick, glistening rocks, at taking such a treacherous route towards the coves, he had the strength to keep up a momentum that required visiting a gym every day; I used to stand and smoke my cigarettes in their doorways, just to show my contempt for those that gave up so much of their time in those places. Another regret? As I leaned over into a clear rock pool, hacking up my lunch of five-bean salad, it was fast turning out to be another one. Not for Jack, but for me.

I recovered enough to call out his name, my voice hoarse as my vomit-burned throat tightened. I coughed again, spitting a caustic taste from my mouth. I’d never wished for a moment that this would happen. What had made me come here, to this desolate place with its amphitheatre of cliffs, endless coves and crashing waves to share such news with Jack? What protection was it really offering me? I’d already made one mistake and, now, another was unfolding in front of me. There seemed nothing I could do to stop the rollercoaster. And I so wanted to get off.

I watched as the rock pool I’d been upending my lunch into rippled and distorted. I felt wetness against the back of my legs, a stinging on the back of my neck. It took me a second or two to realise it was the sea encroaching. Here, amongst sharp, talon-like rocks, was not the place to be when the tide is moving in. I’d venture that it’s not a place to be, full stop. Period, as our American cousins so like to say: as it seemed I was coming to a bloody end it was more than apt, and the irony wasn’t lost on me as I chose to continue clambering. Only when I’d made up some ground did I slow down some, better to prevent any more of the cuts and bruises that mottled my palms and shins. The saltwater was a constant reminder of their presence.

I scanned the grey granite cliffs for some sight of Jack, but I couldn’t locate him against the jagged backdrop. I’d found it so exciting, inspiring and poetic when I’d first laid eyes on the view; how each time I looked at the towering cliffs and the sheer drops that stirred a long-forgotten vertiginous feeling at the pit of my stomach, I found myself falling in love with what this area had to offer me. An escape.

This part of the world is famous. Not just for the job losses when the local fishing industry collapsed in the mid-Sixties, or the rife drug abuse that blighted it for much of the next ten years, but also for its breathtaking coastline. That’s how it’s always described in the glossy brochures: breathtaking. I’d moved here eight years ago, long after the problems had ceased to be and the place had reinvented itself as a holiday destination. I was looking for a change, a break from the city and the way it hurries people to an early grave. And I’d found it; not at first – let’s just say that the locals were distant – but after some time. I felt accepted, at last. I felt I had roots.

Of course, I was saddened to leave behind my good friends, but they all promised they’d visit, and often. And they did. At first. Once it became clear that my new place wasn’t somewhere they could just pitch up, any old time, without prior notice, they stopped. It was a long drive, they said; lots of people from London drive down now and the roads are always jammed, they implored. Because if it weren’t for those two things they’d be around like it had been before, when I had the flat.
There was the convenience of the flat being central, I conceded, but I thought there was more to our friendship than just somewhere to crash, or come back for a quick snort to perk up the night before hitting the clubs. I still believed that, even though no one has come down for over three years. It’s not as if I’ve been banging on their doors, I visited sporadically and always “only for the day”. I wanted to leave the city behind, not the people I loved, but it seemed that it wasn’t going to turn out that way.

Except for Jack.

We’d met one night when Julie and I had gone on a ‘girl’s’ night out. She’d just split from her demonic boyfriend, Colin, and needed some cheering up. Nothing had been arranged, she just turned up, knocking on my door at 9pm, all dressed in glam and glitz, half-pissed, asking if I fancied a drink. As I said, a flat in central London didn’t make for a quiet life.

I’d never really got on with Julie; I was on the periphery of her group of friends and, apart from buying one another the odd drink or her coming up to the flat to drink, smoke and toot into the night, we’d not spent a lot of time together one-on-one. But that night, it all changed. It was the night we met Jack.

I saw him first, standing in profile, his back against one of the glittering pillars in the nightclub. Julie was hammering back the tequilas (free until 11pm on Ladies’ Night) and I was smoking one of her cigarettes.

I didn’t usually smoke, but I found that doing so made making friends easier. Asking for a light was probably the most over-used chat-up line in the world. We’d both had a couple of lines of some powder Julie had in her purse; she claimed it was pure Bolivian coke, but it tasted like shit. It brought my heartbeat up to its peak and that was all I cared about. If I was going to spend the night in the company of someone I hardly knew and wasn’t particularly fond of, I needed something to grease the party wheels.

Of course, Jack didn’t clock me first, that I admit. But later on, back at the flat, as Julie was heaving up those free tequilas, we hit it off. I remember he left abruptly, something about a night bus not running. I really can’t remember. He’d scrawled his number down, asked me to give Julie his best and then was off. I had another of Julie’s cigarettes and went to bed. It was only the next morning that both Julie and the phone number had gone. Two weeks later I ran into them on the tube. They had arms around each other. They looked up; I glared. Embarrassing hellos and small talk followed. I could sense those around us eavesdropping as the tension heightened. I wanted to hit Julie, to scratch at her face. But I smiled, made my excuses and got off at the next stop.

She’d snatched him from me. It was something I could never forgive her for. Never.

But I couldn’t stand there reminiscing, as the sea was closing in quickly again. My shoes – totally wrong for environment I found myself in, although that hadn’t been an immediate concern when I’d left home that morning – were sodden, a squelch leaking out each time I moved over a rock. I tried calling again, scanning the rocks and cliffs for any trace of Jack.

Almost instantly, I was overcome by a feeling of pity for myself; while literal waves were breaking around me, a different kind of wave was crashing on my emotional shore. I sat down, my own salty tears dripping into the foamy sea. I tried to pull myself together, taking deep breaths and holding them to try and reduce my battering heartbeat. I could still taste the sick in the back of my throat and I started to heave again. The water was around my ankles now, capillary action drawing it up my cotton trousers: another ill-considered garment to choose from my wardrobe, in hindsight.

As I struggled against the incoming tide and the sharp teeth of rock jabbing into my hands, I began to think again about what had led me to be here, half-submerged in salt water, clambering for my life. And what I now knew was the love of my life. Calling Jack’s name had made me realise just what he meant to me. I looked back to the thin strip of beach, now some hundred yards away and lapped by a white foaming tongue of waves. There were about twenty people standing, arms crossed, just watching me. No cries, no shouts, no mobile phones being barked into, emergency services called into action by the frantic words of a worried friend, relative or caring stranger.

I recognised some faces, mostly Jack’s friends, interspersed with a few locals – those who didn’t attend the weekly church service – who had seen a crowd gathering and had come down to see what all the fuss was about on this Sunday morning. It didn’t occur to me to wonder why they weren’t rushing to my aid, to rescue me from this predicament. Some of them were still wearing their party clothes from last night’s bash at the pub. Glittery dresses, casual suits, the odd under-dressed person in jeans and sweatshirt who had left after my outburst and gone home to bed, had time to recover and change their clothes.

Because that’s where things had started to unravel for me, at the party. I can’t even remember what the occasion was, for whom this party was being held. I do recall the free bar for the first hour, how I was determined to pack in as many drinks as possible and then slow down for the rest of the night, keep myself topped up. Except this time there was no flat around the corner complete with mirror, blade and a wrap of powder. And I’d forgotten that as the rum was being gulped down as if my life depended on it. In a weird way, it did. My life did depend on getting drunk, because I’d decided I needed to let Jack know how I felt, what he meant to me and how I’d felt so betrayed when he took up with Julie. I wanted to do the same to her, to show her how she’d hurt me; I wanted to take Jack home and to wake up next to him in the morning.

That’s how it had played out in my head, the alcohol easing me into a comfortable frame of mind, making me feel as if I could do anything, even tell Jack how I felt. Now, with water playing around my thighs and splashing up against my lower back, I realised how stupid I’d been, like some love-struck teenager with hormones surging through my body. I could see it now: I’d been a bit of an idiot.

I’d invited a few old friends down from London, knowing Jack would come with them. They’d readily agreed, assuming, no doubt, that I’d be providing the drugs and a place to crash out and recover. But I hadn’t been able to score and so the mood wasn’t as upbeat as I’d hoped. The free bar was helping, but I was too busy throwing drink down my throat to really take in what was happening around me. The only thing I could focus on was Jack and the message I had to tell him.

I almost took the chance when we were standing together in the toilets, letting out some liquid, but I bottled my chance at the last moment, mumbling something inane about how it was like old times, my sentences stuttering to a halt as I fought to make some sense of the words pouring out of my mouth. Jack told me to slow down on the booze, zipped up, patted my shoulder, washed his hands and left. I remember it took me several seconds to stop grinning like a clubber on an E.

As I left the toilets, a squeal assaulted my ears as a microphone was plugged in to the pub’s PA. They’d hired a karaoke machine and were looking for volunteers. Within a second’s thought I stuck my hand up and was called over. I took the microphone, tapped it like some kind of pro singer, cleared my throat and looked at the song options. I wanted something that could get my message to Jack, something that would set up a chance to tell him how I felt, and to do it with Julie right there. Of course, they were no longer a couple now, their fling lasting only a couple of dates. To me it was obvious why it wouldn’t work: Jack wasn’t interested in the girls.

“Jack,” I shrieked into the microphone, “this is for you!” And the opening bars to Hit Me Baby, One More Time by Britney blasted out of the speakers around me. People were clapping, laughing, pointing. Except Jack. He had a quizzical look across his face and he seemed to be searching my own face for answers. I belted out the song, my eyes fixed and focused, as if I were singing just for him. When I’d finished, I blurted out the words that brought me to the predicament I currently found myself in, chasing him across the rocks, about to drown in the rising tide. “Jack?” I said. “I love you!”

There are some things you never forget: your first kiss, leaving home, the loss of a pet. I could now add the look on Jack’s face to that list. And on looks on the faces around him – some staring open-mouthed at me, others looking at Jack, waiting for his reaction. Someone took the microphone from me, I don’t know who it was. Everything stood still for a split second. The music started again and I physically jumped as I was pulled back into the reality of the situation. And that’s when Jack turned and ran.

Others followed him out of the door. I managed to get back to my seat and I drained the last of my free rum. I felt sick, the floor spun. Why had I opened this can of worms? What had I done? I needed some fresh air and no one tried to prevent me from leaving. No one consoled me.

I wasn’t sick until I’d got home. No one else was there; I had the place to myself. I didn’t know if anyone would come back tonight or whether they’d slip in during the early hours and remove their gear, sleep in the car or leave immediately after collecting the assorted bags of clothes and bedding. Secretly I hoped Jack would come, would make it all better, all right somehow. I pulled myself into bed, dragging the sheets into bunches over my still clothed body and drifted into sleep.

I woke to noises in the kitchen. I thought it was a burglar, until the previous night’s nightmare came back to me. I felt terrible, physically and mentally. I crept through to the lounge, my entrance stopping conversation and making several people examine their toes or the carpet.

“Morning!” I exclaimed with faux cheeriness. A series of mumbles came back. “I’m just popping out for a paper. Okay?” I was lying. I couldn’t face staying in the house and knew they’d take it as their opportunity to get out and back to London. I decided to take a walk, perhaps go down to the beach instead; I was hoping the brisk breeze would help me recover. I hadn’t considered that other people I didn’t want to see would have the same idea.

I popped into the convenience store, grabbed a five-bean salad that I thought might settle my stomach. It was almost lunchtime by now anyway, so I decided to dispense with traditional breakfast food. I parked myself on the bench outside, normally a magnet for local youth, and shovelled half the salad down my throat. It helped a little and I regained some energy and verve. So what if I’d made a fool of myself last night, I hadn’t hurt anyone really. Unless you included me in that, in which case I’d cut deeper than anyone in a long time.

Standing up, I tipped the remains of my lunch into the over-flowing plastic bin next to the bench and took decided I needed to get to the beach, to stand, looking out to sea as I contemplated how I was going to pick myself up, paper over the cracks and get on with things.

I saw them before they saw me; it as Jack, and he was with her, with Julie. Of all the scenes to witness! I called out Jack’s name and they both turned towards me. Julie peeled away from Jack, began walking up the beach towards the town centre; he walked towards me. I smiled and walked over to meet him halfway.

“About last night…” I began to say, but Jack cut me off.
“I want you to stay away from me, to stay away from Julie and the rest of us. We’re not interested, not anymore. Got it?”
He turned to walk after Julie. I kept pace beside him and began pleading with him to rethink what he’d said.
“When things have calmed down, you’ll see it was just a silly drunken moment. I love you, but if you don’t want to admit your love for me, then I underst…”
“Love? What the hell do you know about love?” Jack’s voice was tinged with emotion, the anger bubbling underneath. “I told you to stay away, now don’t make me do something stupid. Understand?”
I did, but somewhere in my brain the part responsible for being sensible was unable to function. I had flicked the off switch. There were tears streaming down my face, my fists were clenched. I told Jack he couldn’t do this to me, I needed to still see him. I told him I loved him once more. And then he took off on a run towards the cliffs and coves. And I followed.

I was being buffeted about more, half-swimming and half-wading out in the increasingly choppy waves. The tide was coming in faster now. I’d made a huge effort to get to the beach and was making progress. I was going to make it! I felt the adrenalin pump again, felt elated that I would survive. I was sure Jack would make it to safety, that this near-death experience I’d gone through would make him change his mind. I guessed he was sheltering in a cove, or maybe he’d got to the cliff path and was walking back to the town.

It had never occurred to me that he’d be on the beach, not until I spied him, his arm around Julie’s shoulder, draped like a fine silk scarf. I stopped kicking my legs, I felt so dumbstruck. A wave took me, slamming my legs into the rocks, grazing my hands and knocking the wind out of me. But I didn’t feel it. I was numb from the cold salt water, numb from the sight of Jack and Julie moving up the beach, leaving me to my fate. I could hear the coastguard’s sirens, so someone had had actually alerted the authorities. But by then I’d lost the will, lost the fight, lost it all.

I (Re)Opened A Can Of Worms

2008-11-26T16:16:00.001Z

I didn’t need to notice the brooding clouds that tipped over the tops of the surrounding cliffs like peeping Toms to know that my chase my futile – or that I was in trouble. I was never going to catch Jack; not only was he faster than me at clambering over the slick, glistening rocks, at taking such a treacherous route towards the coves, he had the strength to keep up a momentum that required visiting a gym every day. I used to stand and smoke my cigarettes in their doorways, just to show my contempt for those that gave up so much their time in these places. Another regret? As I leaned over into a clear rock pool, hacking up my lunch of five-bean salad, it was fast turning out to be another one. Not for Jack, but for me.

I recovered enough to call out his name, my voice hoarse as my vomit-burned throat tightened. I coughed again, spitting a caustic taste from my mouth. I’d never wished for a moment that this would happen. What had made me come here, to this desolate place with its amphitheatre of cliffs, endless coves and crashing waves to share such news with Jack? What protection was it really offering me? I’d already made one mistake and, now, another was unfolding in front of me. There seemed nothing I could do to stop the rollercoaster. And I so wanted to get off.

I watched as the rock pool I’d been upending my lunch into rippled and distorted. I felt wetness against the back of my legs, a stinging on the back of my neck. It took me a second or two to realise it was the sea encroaching. Here, amongst sharp, talon-like rocks, was not the place to be when the tide is moving in. I’d venture that it’s not a place to be, full stop. Period, as our American cousins so like to say: as it seemed I was coming to a bloody end it was more than apt, and the irony wasn’t lost on me as I chose to continue clambering. Only when I’d made up some ground did I slow down some, better to prevent any more of the cuts and bruises that mottled my palms and shins. The saltwater was a constant reminder of their presence.

I scanned the grey granite cliffs for some sight of Jack, but I couldn’t locate him against the jagged backdrop. I’d found it so exciting, inspiring and poetic when I’d first laid eyes on the view; how each time I looked at the towering cliffs and the sheer drops that stirred a long-forgotten vertiginous feeling at the pit of my stomach, I found myself falling in love with what this area had to offer me. An escape.

This part of the world is famous. Not just for the job losses when the local fishing industry collapsed in the mid-Sixties, or the rife drug abuse that blighted it for much of the next ten years, but also for its breathtaking coastline. That’s how it’s always described in the glossy brochures: breathtaking. I’d moved here eight years ago, long after the problems had ceased to be and the place had reinvented itself as a holiday destination. I was looking for a change, a break from the city and the way it hurries people to an early grave. And I’d found it; not at first – let’s just say that the locals were distant – but after some time. I felt accepted, at last. I felt I had roots.

Of course, I was saddened to leave behind my good friends, but they all promised they’d visit, and often. And they did. At first. Once it became clear that my new place wasn’t somewhere they could just pitch up, any old time, without prior notice, they stopped. It was a long drive, they said; lots of people from London drive down now and the roads are always jammed, they implored. Because if it weren’t for those two things they’d be around like it had been before, when I had the flat.
There was the convenience of the flat being central, I conceded, but I thought there was more to our friendship than just somewhere to crash, or come back for a quick snort to perk up the night before hitting the clubs. I still believed that, even though no one has come down for over three years. It’s not as if I’ve been banging on their doors, I visited sporadically and always “only for the day”. I wanted to leave the city behind, not the people I loved, but it seemed that it wasn’t going to turn out that way.

Except for Jack.

We’d met one night when Julie and I had gone on a girl’s night out. She’d just split from her demonic boyfriend, Colin, and needed some cheering up. Nothing had been arranged, she just turned up, knocking on my door at 9pm, all dressed in glam and glitz, half-pissed, asking if I fancied a drink. As I said, a flat in central London didn’t make for a quiet life.

I’d never really got on with Julie; I was on the periphery of her group of friends and, apart from buying one another the odd drink or her coming up to the flat to drink, smoke and toot into the night, we’d not spent a lot of time together one-on-one. But that night, it all changed. It was the night we met Jack.

I saw him first, standing in profile, his back against one of the glittering pillars in the nightclub. Julie was hammering back the tequilas (free until 11pm on Ladies’ Night) and I was smoking one of her cigarettes.

I didn’t usually smoke, but I found that doing so made making friends easier. Asking for a light was probably the most over-used chat-up line in the world. We’d both had a couple of lines of some powder Julie had in her purse; she claimed it was pure Bolivian coke, but it tasted like shit. It brought my heartbeat up to its peak and that was all I cared about. If I was going to spend the night in the company of someone I hardly knew and wasn’t particularly fond of, I needed something to grease the party wheels.

Of course, Jack didn’t clock me first, that I admit. But later on, back at the flat, as Julie was heaving up those free tequilas, we hit it off. I remember he left abruptly; something about a night bus not running. I really can’t remember. He’d scrawled his number down, asked me to give Julie his best and then was off. I had another of Julie’s cigarettes and went to bed. It was only the next morning that both Julie and the phone number had gone. Two weeks later I ran into them on the tube. They had arms around each other. They looked up; I glared. Embarrassing hellos and small talk followed. I could sense those around us eavesdropping as the tension heightened. I wanted to hi Julie, to scratch at her face. But I smiled, made my excuses and got off at the next stop.

She’d snatched him from me. It was something I could never forgive her for. Never.

But I couldn’t stand there reminiscing, as the sea was closing in quickly again. My shoes – totally wrong for environment I found myself in, although that hadn’t been an immediate concern when I’d left home that morning – were sodden, a squelch leaking out each time I moved over a rock. I tried calling again, scanning the rocks and cliffs for any trace of Jack.

Almost instantly, I was overcome by a feeling of pity for myself; while literal waves were breaking around me, a different kind of wave was crashing on my emotional shore. I sat down, my own salty tears dripping into the foamy sea. I tried to pull myself together, taking deep breaths and holding them to try and reduce my battering heartbeat. I could still taste the sick in the back of my throat and I started to heave again. The water was around my ankles now, capillary action drawing it up my cotton trousers: another ill-considered garment to choose from my wardrobe, in hindsight.

I Opened A Can Of Worms

2008-10-08T17:47:00.001+01:00

A Starting Point

2008-10-02T16:14:00.001+01:00

I knew that following Bill up the hill was a mistake; he was far fitter than I have ever been and before too long he’d disappeared over the nearest summit while I was struggling to catch my breath. I was bent over a large boulder, my hacking cough disturbing a nesting pair of buzzards, resting nearby this early morning. I took a deep breath and pressed on.

Just Some Words

2008-08-19T12:22:00.002+01:00

Clambering for the crowd clamour,
The kiss of the lifetime rushes through my head and she’s all teeth and smiles and saliva and

I’m feeling a rush from the toes to the top of my head and the flashing lights are brighter, brighter and then I’m in my own space, she’s away from me, arms waving and…

A tune a tune a tune a tune, he cries in to my ear. I don’t know him, but he’s hugging me. All I want is water and

Somewhere to sit_stand_lie down.

Latest News

2008-07-28T13:04:00.003+01:00

yeah, so it was over. now it's not. well, sort of.

i don't have anything to post, but i don't want to stop blogging. i'm adding sites to the sidebar so might as well post something, even if it's just one line in my head:

his voice honked at me like a bassoon, a syrupy elongated voice that hypnotised and repelled me all at once.

or ideas.

okay, enough now. this space: watch it.

It's over. For now.

2008-06-18T11:30:00.003+01:00

That's it, this blog is no longer being updated.

There is a new site, in progress.

But it won't be for average fiction. Oh no, that part of purplesimon's life is over. For now.

So, my suggestion is that you take a look at the links in the sidebar and follow one. There is nothing to see here anymore.

Thanks for dropping by, though. It's real kind of you, even if it was by mistake.

Now, hit that back button or click a link. I can guarantee you won't be disappointed if you do the former; I can't guarantee that if you do the latter.

purplesimon out...

Holiday

2008-05-21T16:49:00.007+01:00

I'm currently in the process of updating my work portfolio (which is taking some time after 9 years in advertising) and then I'll be busy sorting out my life: work, etc

Now, read on.

--

I'm back from holiday, but not posting anything just yet, so the message below stays for now.

purplesimon out...

For those Internet users that stumble across this site and don't hit the back button immediately - why not? Is there something wrong with you? - then I'm off on holiday.

Not that I publish every day, mind you, but in case you thought some new writing might appear and were worried I'd fallen off a cliff/been hit by a strange alien bug that caused my eyes to swell and my limbs to drop to the floor/given up*: I haven't.

For those that wish I had fallen off a cliff/been hit by a strange alien bug that caused my eyes to swell and my limbs to drop to the floor/given up*: apologies, the time will one day come. Until then, stop visiting.

Thanks.

purplesimon out...

*delete where not applicable

Lottery - Opening Paragraph

2008-05-14T16:50:00.001+01:00

“Come on my little beauties,” Roy said as he straightened up, his left hand supporting his lower back, a slight gasp escaping from his tight, puckered mouth as his knees cracked to a locking position. He raised his right hand to shade his face from the sun as he admired his handiwork: five straight, thick-as-your-arm cucumbers sat in front of him. They were nestled in rich, dark soil and glistened in the midday sunshine that spilled through the open slats of the greenhouse roof.

The Crowd - Final Draft

2008-04-21T09:51:00.001+01:00

I can hear the car horn screaming, a constant. Faces swarm, buzzing about me, encircling like vultures. Several people ask if I’m okay, they’re spoiling the enjoyment of the clouds scudding across the sky but I don’t say that; I sense in the disquieting looks that it’s bad form to do so. Right now, at least.
There is a sticky wetness around my head and I reach with my arm to brush it away, but someone tells me to stay still. Without being told I know it’s my blood, it’s something I can sense but I’m unsure of how it came to pillow my head. I imagine it as a red halo, a radiance of my life as it flows from an unseen wound.
It’s then that I look at the faces crowding around my prone form: a woman with a shriek of red in her hair; a man with testudinarious specs on, their stippled form catching the rays of the morning sun and forming macula on his face – they look like liver spots although he can’t be more than twenty years old; an old couple, holding hands as if to stop them falling into the abyss that contains me, their lachrymogenic faces a mixture of pity and shame. I also see angry faces, a gamut of visages irritated at my holding them up, my getting in the way of their daily routines. My first thought was fuck ‘em. I could feel the shudder of laughter travel through my body, but tight-lipped kept it down like the sickness of pregnancy.

Can you talk? What’s your name? Can you hear me? A barrage of questions. I think: at least I’m wearing clean knickers.

Of course, it’s all Jeremy’s fault. I mean, if it wasn’t for him, his actions, I wouldn’t be here lying in the road wondering if my brain is going to stay inside my skull. The fucking deadbeat. I imagine him now, sitting at his desk toying with his bloody Blackberry – about the only tool he knows how to use properly. Actually, that’s unfair. I used to think Jeremy was amazing, the clichéd best thing since sliced bread, et-cet-ter-rah. And he was.
It’s true to say that Jez – he likes it when I call him that – and I have history. Goes back about 18 months. I’d just started at the publishers where I’d been employed to be his personal assistant. I had no previous experience, but I obviously struck a chord with Jeremy because he hired me there and then, no second interview, no meeting the partners, HR or anyone else. Just said to me: you start tomorrow, unless you can start right now? When I asked what he meant, he asked me to follow him.
I got up to walk out after him, but he stopped me short, told me to wait two minutes and meet him on the corner by the Starbucks – he held up two thick fingers in a victory sign; that’s Jez, he likes to gesture to make his point. Well, intrigued as I was, I knew where this was leading and I wanted to be led.
Within ten minutes of leaving the office, I was naked on a bed, Jez’s head buried in my crotch. Afterwards, I asked if this was paid overtime. Jez laughed, said he knew he’d hired the right girl for the job and that the job was right for me: I was good at it. Then he smiled; a twinkle in his eye, a wrinkle in his jaw. See you Monday, he called.
I’d fallen on my feet. Or rather, my back. Either way it was good.

Friends were monitive. That I expected. But the ferocity some displayed, well, it was almost as if I’d committed some heinous crime against their children or something. I steered clear of a few people, shall we say. Shame I hadn’t steered clear of the car that’s currently casting a shadow across my prone form. Bloody Jez, the bastard, I completely blame him for my present predicament.
You see, all had been well. I knew about his wife. Admittedly, finding out about his kids had been a mule-kick to the stomach, but I’d hidden my dismay and surprise well, considering he had me pinned to a hotel bed in Soho. None of that prepared me for the bombshell which led to me being surrounded by strangers, my brain leaking on to a London street during the lunchtime rush.

I’d gone into the office as I usually would. I knew there was nothing on my agenda – and soon to be nothing on me whatsoever, apart from a sheen of sweat and a naked Jeremy. As soon as I stepped through the swishing glass doors I knew something was up. There was a charge to the atmosphere, beyond the normal hatred directed at me by other female employees – and a couple of male ones, too; seemed Jez was more metrosexual than even he’d considered. I tried to ignore it, head held high, stilettos striding forward, back straight, skirt smooth. I poured myself a coffee from the percolator in the staff kitchen and took it through to my desk in Jez’s office. Before I even had a chance to take off my coat, sip my coffee and place my pert bottom (Jez’s description, I hasten to add) on my seat when Jez came in. I smiled, but he told me to meet him in the usual place. While Jez wasn’t one for routine, even I sensed something – it was rare that Jez wanted to screw first thing in the morning, preferring to take long lunches over which to savour my body.

And that’s why I find myself here, lying on tarmac instead of silk sheets.

I gulped my coffee down, grabbed my purse and mobile and headed out after Jez, not wanting to keep him waiting if he was feeling needy. I got in the car, no word. It was only after we’d been in the usual room for twenty minutes that he broke the news: it was over. I didn’t know what to say, found it difficult to speak – mainly because I had a mouthful of Jez’s cock. I’d blotted that out before, only remembering it as the ambulance man pulled out a piece of flesh stuck in my teeth
You’re lucky we were here, love, he said. We were responding to a call over at the hotel when we saw the crowd. Seems some bloke got his just desserts, he chuckled, glancing at his partner. Hang on, love, what’s that? Say again.

Can you get someone to turn that bloody horn off? It’s giving me a headache.

The Crowd - Later Draft

2008-03-18T16:41:00.002Z

The Crowd - Early Draft

2008-03-07T14:35:00.001Z

I can hear the car horn screaming, a constant. Faces swarm, buzzing about me, encircling like vultures. Several people ask if I’m okay; they’re spoiling the enjoyment of the clouds scudding across the sky but I don’t say that. I sense in the disquieting looks that it’s bad form to do so. Right now, at least.

There is a sticky wetness around my head and I reach with my arm to brush it away, but someone tells me to stay still. Without being told I know it’s my blood, it’s something I can sense but I’m unsure of how it came to pillow my head. I imagine it as a red halo, a radiance of my life as it flows from an unseen wound. Vascular tabefaction.

It’s then that I look at the faces crowding around my prone form: a woman with a shriek of red in her hair; a man with testudinarious specs on, their stippled form catching the rays of the morning sun and forming macula on his face – they look like liver spots although he can’t be more than twenty years old; an old couple, holding hands as if to stop them falling into the abyss that contains me, their lachrymogenic faces a mixture of pity and shame. I also see angry faces, a gamut of visages irritated at my holding them up, my getting in the way of their daily routines. My first thought was fuck ‘em. I could feel the shudder of laughter travel through my body, but tight-lipped I kept it down like the sickness of early pregnancy.

Can you talk? What’s your name? Can you hear me? A barrage of questions. I think: at least I’m wearing clean knickers.

Work In Progress - A Rewrite

2008-02-19T14:31:00.002Z

I is lying
In the sun, feeling its warmth spread over me
A heat I ain’t felt in a long ago time. I bathing in it
Letting its radiance thaw out my bones.
Now a clear, warm rain
Is falling upon me, like showering morning-time.
I dreaming.
I not want to wake, but laughter draws me to consciousness.

When I come to I’m not sunbathing, not showering.
I’m surrounded
Grinning faces
Black boots
Dark slacks all around
They aren’t here to help me, to be nice.
Song runs through my head and I can’t resist a whistle
Even as the first kicks arrive like London buses: in threes.
Singing: “There may be trouble ahead, but while there’s music and moonlight and love and romance.”
Not the latter. Though. Anything but.
I close my eyes, try to picture
Nat King Cole
Singing smooth on telly-vision, but
The pain starts to bring me back to…
Subway
Cardboard
Half-empty bottle of something caustic yet alcoholic.
That’s where I am.
Fenced in a ring of boots
Of fists
Of violence.
After numerous kicks, punches and a smattering of urine streams hitting my face
It stops
And I’m somewhere between sleep and consciousness again, but
The reverie of Nat has gone
The sun has passed behind a black cloud and
Won’t come out again until it feels the morning calling it.

It’s strange
Really weird: you’d think that a beaten old man like me might get more change in his cup;
You’d think that people would feel pity
See that life can be cruel
Perhaps even help that beaten person report incidents to the police
But no.
See, the police were my antagonists not louts
Youths, lads, kids; hoodies as referred to in large print headlines – for the hard of seeing so they can understand that the world is to be feared.
Life ain’t what you think, what’s reported.
You try living it, just once.
Reckon you’ll be shrinking back under your rocks
In your shells
Behind your doors; pretty darn quick.
So would I, choices be provided.
What you won’t be doing is throwing pretty circles of metal
Into a poly-something cup.
Dried blood is scary
A concept not seen in the ‘burbs where they prefer
To sweep their hideousness beneath carpets imported from Turkey or Iran
Or wall-to-wall plush pile.
Not even my girl comes to cheer me today.
P’raps she’d not recognised me?
The suck-cess-full success from long time-back. Me, the high-flier touching down.

Or maybe I’m still in the throes of a crash-landing?

Work In Progress - Quick Update

2008-01-29T11:44:00.000Z

I is laying in the sun, feeling its warmth spread over me, a heat I ain’t felt in long ago time. I bathing in it, letting its radiance thaw out my bones. Now a clear, warm rain is falling on me, like showering morning-time. I dreaming. I not want to wake, but laughter draws me to consciousness.
When I do come to I’m not sunbathing, not showering. I’m surrounded, grinning faces, black boots, denim all around. They aren’t here to help me, to be nice. Song runs through my head and I can’t resist a whistle even as the first kicks arrive like London buses: in threes. Singing: “There may be trouble ahead, but while there’s music and moonlight and love and romance.” Not the latter, though. Anything but. I close my eyes, try to picture Nat King Cole singing smooth on telly-vision, but the pain starts to bring me back to…
Subway, cardboard, half-empty bottle of something caustic yet alcoholic. That’s where I am. Fenced in a ring of boots, of fists and violence. After numerous kicks, punches and a smattering of urine streams hitting my face it stops and I’m somewhere between sleep and consciousness again, but the reverie of Nat has gone, the sun has passed behind a black cloud and won’t come out again until it feels the morning calling it.

It’s strange, really weird: you’d think that a beaten old man like me might get more change in his cup; you’d think that people would feel pity, see that life can be cruel, perhaps even help that beaten person report incidents to the police, but no. See, the police were my antagonists not louts, youths, lads, kids; hoodies as referred to in large print headlines – for the hard of seeing so they can understand that the world is to be feared. Life ain’t what you think, what’s reported. You try living it, just once. Reckon you’ll be shrinking back under your rocks, in your shells, behind your doors; pretty darn quick.
So would I, choices be provided.
What you won’t be doing is throwing pretty circles of metal into a poly-something cup. Dried blood is scary, a concept not seen in the ‘burbs where they prefer to sweep their hideousness beneath carpets imported from Turkey or Iran, or wall-to-wall plush pile. Not even my girl comes to cheer me today. P’raps she’d not recognised me? The suck-cess-full success from long time-back. Me, the high-flier touching down.
Or maybe I’m still in the throes of a crash-landing?

Work In Progress - An Update

2008-01-03T10:41:00.000Z

Amy rolled over in her bed, burying her head into the pillow, a low groan radiating from her mouth as her left hand reached out to silence the screech of the alarm clock. It was 6am.
“Five more minutes,” she said, to no one in particular. Amy lived alone, in a third-floor flat in a not-too-salubrious part of the west London suburbs. Within what seemed to Amy as mere seconds, the screeching began again in earnest; this time she flung back the duvet, its cover of embroidered flowers sliding to the floor. She lifted her legs out of the bed, rubbed her eyes with closed fists and reached over to a small chair, on the back of which was draped a silk gown. As she pulled the gown tight around her petite frame, she pushed her manicured feet into a pair of fluffy pink slippers.

Amy’s morning routine was always the same: kettle on for her coffee; shower on, the steam rising up to the inadequate extractor fan and billowing out into the rest of her one-bed flat; a rush to find clean clothes which she could wear that day. In fact, Amy’s morning ritual was typical of most of her friends, all twenty-somethings working in offices across London. This morning was no different.
After slurping her way through a lukewarm coffee, Amy grabbed her (fake) Gucci clutch bag, slipped on a pair of heels and her coat and slipped out of her place, heading for the stairs that would lead her to the outside world, one that appeared to be frosty and uninviting.
It was just a short two-minute walk to the station for Amy, her main reason for investing in such a small place to live at such an exorbitant price. She grabbed a copy of the Metro, the free newspaper that contained yesterday’s news, and stood stamping her feet on the concrete platform. The display said the train would be there in 1 minute; the platform soon became crowded with other, late-arriving passengers, all jostling for space, trying to determine where the train doors would stop. Regulars like Amy held their ground in the same place every single day; not even a nuclear bomb warning would budge them. Thirty seconds later, Amy was squashed against the sweaty armpit of a fellow commuter and the luggage of a visiting American family who, unbeknownst to them, had decided to travel into the capital during rush hour. She tried to read her paper but couldn’t; Amy had to experience her daily commute with the sound the tinny sound of drums and cymbals teasing itself out of someone’s headphones. Amy wished she’d bought an iPod.
The train driver crackled his announcement over the distorting Tannoy system of the train; soon they would be arriving at Waterloo station, please would passengers remember to take their luggage with them. Amy said the words verbatim in her head, her way of coping with the cattle truck conditions endemic on Britain’s railways every weekday morning and evening, a situation she had to pay a large proportion of her monthly salary to experience.
Amy alighted from the train, sucked along with the outpouring of people that flowed towards the barriers flanked by bristling ticket inspectors with their machines at the ready, their posture suggesting that all passengers were guilty of fare evasion until proven otherwise. Amy hated this part of her daily journey the most. She endured it because she was able to take 15 minutes on the other side to compose herself, grab two steaming cup of frothy milk and dark, rich caffeine and exit the station long after the majority of commuters had streamed out, forming their queues for the buses and taxis that huddled like black and red penguins along York Road.
And she would was also able to spend some time with the homeless Big Issue seller who was always positioned at the bottom of the steps that led Amy towards Hungerford Bridge and the grey, 70’s concrete of the South Bank Centre. She would hand him the spare coffee she’d purchased from the station, slip some coins or notes into his seen-better-days polystyrene cup or his shit-stained palms, holding her breath to avoid the stench of decay all homeless people seemed to exude in vast quantities; a street-scent; a vagrant aftershave.
Amy was not the type to do this. Not usually. But there was something about this man that seemed familiar to her, although she was unable to put her finger on it. Somehow, he made her feel like a daughter loved by her father. Except Amy’s father had disappeared when she was just 14 years old, at the same time her mother was dying from a pernicious cancer that had ravaged her body for years. No one had seem him since and Amy was left to be brought up by a strict aunt, a cliché she thought was only in books, but sadly for her was something that could be found in abundance in the outside world. But that didn’t stop Amy from searching for him, looking at the faces of all the men she met who were over 50 years old.
There was something about this man, the huddled rag of a man, who sat day-after-day outside the station, waiting for something other than money, recognition or pity. It seemed he was searching for someone too.

Lights. Camera. Action

2008-01-02T14:51:00.000Z

Steve is telling his story.

He’s quiet spoken, his manner pensive.

Lines crease his forehead as he thinks, as he articulates exactly what happened, how he ended up sitting at the side of the road, the four heads of his family splattered like watermelons; no, like weeping pustules; no, like a snail crushed underfoot back at his home while he was sitting on a busy overpass, rocking back and forth, whimpering like a puppy, tears streaming down his face.
He says he has no recollection of these events we present to him, no ideas how he came to be sitting on the overpass, how he came to have four pints of blood splashed on his clothes, yet no discernible wounds. Some sort of amnesia, we get to thinking, perhaps selective on account of the trauma.
It’s not unheard of. People blot stuff out, erase it from the mind when it becomes too much to handle, too difficult to store for long periods of time; it’s volatile, inflammable.

Steve is being capricious. The Doc says he’s had a bang on the head, even though he can’t find any puncture wounds, no bruising. Even the Doc admits he’s not seen anything like it in almost 30 years of work. Never. It’s unprecedented. So the Doc says.
C’mon Steve, spit it out, open the gates of the dam, unleash the confession. He looks at me, unsure. It’s not what he’s expecting. But he does his best in this uncertain situation.
I find myself almost hypnotised by Steve’s drawl, the way he hangs on certain vowels. I watch as his mouth twists, the left-hand side lifting, streaking lines across his face. His eyes are darting. Brown liquid pools, occasionally stopping like a burglar trapped in the torch beam of a police officer. Usually when we show him photos he stops, words stuck in his throat, choking him like chicken bones. No one goes to help. We all watch, transfixed. He turns red, raspberry, beetroot, blackberry. A slap brings him out of it, the mark of my hand tattooed on his cheek, a slime of his blood smeared from lip to ear.

He continues his story, the same as before.
Donotknowdonotknooooooooooowwwww.
I have to believe him.

I stand, the orange plastic chair tacked to the backs of my knees scraping its metal legs against the concrete floor as I straighten up. We’ve all had enough, especially Steve. Our eyes lock; his pleading, mine judging.
It’s stalemate.
Get rid of him, I whisper to my colleague. He nods in approval.
I leave the room, I need air.

Outside I hear muffled words as I push my forehead against the vending machine, waiting for the slap of the plastic cup as it drops. People are milling around me, some pause to say hey. The sound of the hot liquid hitting the cup makes me want to piss and I leave the steaming coffee sitting in the metal tray as I make my way towards the toilets.

I re-enter. Steve is telling us his story. His manner is quiet, pensive. His voice: ditto. I look about for a chair: take the plastic, orange-coloured monstrosity, scarred with a million cigarette burns, spillages of sugary coffee, of unknown fluids. I remember my own cup, apologise and leave the room. It’s no longer on its metal tray, so I wait for another one to be poured before coming back to Steve.
I move the chair on my return. I look at Steve as I place the four spindles of metal on the floor, teeth gritted as the scraping plugs the flow of words mumbling, tumbling from Steve’s mouth. I nod. Steve carries on, telling us his story.

I look about, distracted. Paint peeling, blue shards undulating in the breeze of the desktop fan that sits on the Formica table in front of me, the barrier that separates me from Steve. I can hear him. Donotknowdonotknow. A keening whisper, a sound that will haunt me. I have to believe him. He says he has no recollection. Amnesia brought on by trauma. It’s not unheard of.
I write down notes on the events as they currently stand, throwing paper in front of the fan so it blows into Steve’s face. He stops, shock painting his face, powdering it white, ghost-like. It’s a technique, to wake them, to shock them.

Them = person + guilt.

Hand dug deep into my faded 501s, shirt tails flapping as the fan oscillates towards me. I stare. I tell Steve I know of people who blot things out, erase them; these things are too much to be contemplate, to replay like the Super cine 8 films of our youth. These things can’t be stored for long periods of time; they’re volatile, thrashing about, verbally. It’s the trauma; it has a medical name just so that courts can apportion blame, costs, damages.

I stand, quickly. The chair scrapes on the floor. Steve winces. I wink at him, tell him it’s time to replenish my cup of coffee, for a break; it’s a chance for him to remember, to recall, to reminisce. It’s his last chance to impress me.
I leave the room. I need air.

I can hear Steve, telling us his story, but now his voice is muffled by the chipboard door, its surface littered with the scars of so many confessions and a good deal of frustration. There’s a lot of it in this job, it goes with the territory. There’s no hiding from that fact. It’s what they term as an occupational hazard, a way of avoiding that blame, those costs, the damages.
I need air.
I pull aside a young man whose name I wouldn’t remember even if he were to say it out loud that moment I pulled on his shirt sleeve. More fans in here, I tell him. He runs to do my bidding. I need a coffee, I need air.

I re-enter. Steve is silent. No one is asking questions, eye contact is avoided. All eyes are on the tape recorder, the old, battered tape recorder; it had been mine, when I was growing up, when I wanted to be a singer and I recorded myself tunelessly bawling out the hits of the Jackson 5. I wanted to be black. If I’d known what I know now, I’d have written to Michael - hey, Mikey. Wanna change colour now? And gender?
I wipe these thoughts from my head. Concentrate, I say to myself. Over and over: mantra number one. Breathe, it tells me, calm. I reach over towards Steve, see his eyes flinch, his head involuntarily jerk backwards as if I were about to hurt him. It’s a sign; the first. He is remembering. Wrist flicks, tape turns. Recording, the red light indicates. I pick up the paper on which the events are documented.
I look for another sign that he remembers. There is nothing. It’s not working.
Something’s not right, I say. Let’s try again. From the top.
It’s time for another break, more coffee. The new fans come in, leads extending across the floor, dividing the concrete into islands, countries, continents. I need air.

I wait again while the whirring machine delivers me another cup of extra black with no sugar. There is a commotion behind me as Steve readies himself, but I try to ignore it, to clear my mind and stay fresh. It’s time to try again. I wait five minutes more, wait until the fans have cleared the cling of the heat, wait for my cup to fill.

I re-enter. Steve is sat, waiting for me.
Let’s cut the crap, get to the point, I say. Let’s begin.
I can hear Steve telling us his story. His real story. His confession is coming out of him like the voice of a bullied schoolboy who’s decided it’s better to come clean than to be beaten for being different. But I know he’s holding something back. I stare, he stops. It’s a technique, to wake them, to shock them. The red light is in on, it’s a focus.

I stand. Steve is shouting now, wanting to unburden himself of his crimes, telling us how he shot his wife, his kids. He shows remorse, wants to right the wrong. I tell him I don’t believe him, that he doesn’t look like the kind of man that could pull off such a crime, wouldn’t be able to squeeze his pinky around the cold steel of the gun’s butt, his index finger curled like a cat around feet, feeling the trigger, feeling its tightness.
You are nothing.
I say.
Nothing.
He starts to cry again, head buried in his hands. I see the red light on the tape recorder, that little LED shining, the colour of the blood oozing from Steve’s family in the photographs.
Better, I say.
I need air.

I can hear Steve telling us his story, wailing his confession through the concrete walls, through the chipboard door, the steel door. Through the vacuum of his nightmare. I bring to mind Steve’s features, the way the skin pleats on his forehead when I show him the photographs, the four heads of his family, they blood sprayed like graffiti on a billboard, bathing him in a scarlet rain. The way his hands clasp and unclasp, the fingernails chewed passed the nail bed, dried blood staining the edges. He shakes when I tell him how he was found rocking back and forth, whimpering like a child locked in the dark and dust beneath the stairs or chased by an imaginary monster from under the bed. How there were hot, stinging tears caressing his face, bringing a flush to his cheeks.

I can hear Steve, telling me his story. The moment he woke and things had irrevocably changed. The stillness in the house, the malevolent silence stalking through the rooms. I can hear Steve telling me how he’d woken up, an uncomfortable lump sitting in his chest, a hard lump taking residence in his heart. How he’d called out for his mother, his father. How he’d heard no reply.
I can hear Steve saying it, speaking the words. I listen to him tell us how he stepped from his bed, his feet warm on the soft carpet. He says how he felt sick, as if he knew opening the door was wrong. He says how he couldn’t stop his hand, rising to the handle, pulling down hard and letting the door swing open toward him. I hear Steve tell us how he’d called again for his mother, quietly, as if he were intruding on some private moment a child shouldn’t interrupt. I can hear Steve saying how he saw his family, their heads splattered like watermelons, like snails crushed underfoot, how he ran and ran from the house. How he ran until he came to the overpass.
We can all hear Steve, the words coming out quicker than his tongue can form the necessary sounds. We can hear him telling us my story.

I pull open the door, the strength of my entry stopping Steve’s tears, the only sound is his snot being snuffled back into his sinuses every few beats of his heart. His eyes, wet, expectant as a mother with her swollen belly cupped in her arms, they stare at me, hopeful.

I’m sorry Steve. I say.

My name’s Iain.

Yes, Iain. Of course. You’ve not made it this time. Please can you leave the set now.

Thank you. He replies.
We’re calm now, the acting over. His acting over.

Iain speaks. Thank you for the opportunity.

Iain.
I call him back.
Get your teeth fixed.

Work In Progress - New Year, New Post

2008-01-02T10:39:00.000Z

I sitting at the bottom of the grey expanse of stone steps reaching into the mouth of Waterloo station, a bustling terminal spewing people and eating them at the same time; a yawning maw of carved granite. Even among all those faceless faces you spot familiarity. Y’know what I mean? A streak of blonde hair; a flicked brolly and discarded paper fluttering from hands while eyes look away, not bothering to notice any detritus – paper or otherwise. They never see me, me think-so. ‘Cept one.

It’s like she knows me somehow. But those drug-fugs made me wired different now, in the head-like. She could be anyone: Mum, nurse, counsellor, fellow Issue-er selling-type. Or none of ‘em. Prolly all. I recognise her every day she come by, not just ‘cause she smile at me or drop jangling, clanking coins into me cup or press crumpled, soft paper into my grease-streaked, pavement-stained palm – paper with The Queen’s head on. For none of that; she just familiarity in clothes, her heels click-clacking on the concourse as she approaches me. Sometimes, if I’m still sleep in me bag, she gently shakes me, drops coins or paper and walks on; sometimes she just leaves a note or two. I don’t know her name, but I do. Weird-like. As I say: familiarity in a skirt. But not today she isn’t. Today, like yesserday, she gone not here. The last of her coins slump in my cup, which not floweth over my Lord. She prolly found out ‘bout me, ‘bout me past.

Which is good. ‘Cause I need someone to explain it to me. I been trying to blottit out, even the suck-cesspit, like I was. Back in the day. Back when they called me Alan, when I-ad a name.

All just memories I forgetting, all just a river of my thoughts flowing to the sea of forgotten. I’m just kidnapped by the current.

Work In Progress

2007-12-19T17:12:00.000Z

I used to be successful, y’know. Once. Back in the day. Long time-go now, mostly forgotten; mostly buried under years of alcohol and drug-fugs. Buried deep they are, but not so deep that they don’t come calling, come hassling me, teasing me with promises. But I don’t go digging, no. Not me. Just sometimes they come at me like zombies, clawing at the fragile, earthy topsoil of my memories, arms out-stretched, limbs twisted or missing. They don’t want me ‘membering those other days, the suck-cesspit of life I once took a part in. Nor does I.
I puddling outside the train station, awaiting the daily tide of commuters to ebb and flow past, my shaking hands ready to greet those that don’t want shaking hands. Don’t touch me, they shout, hands holding ‘chiefs over noses, breathing dirt-clotted air in and insults out. My polystyrene cup, toothmarked and chipped, sits between my knees, a couple of coins jostling for space; they get no new friends today; they had no new friends yesterday. I’m not grumbling but stomach is. No successful today, like once I was. Back in the day.
All just memories now. Distant as second cousins.

Carrion – Part 1

2007-09-18T12:53:00.000+01:00

The rain scudded across the city as Martin sat at his desk, the glow of the screen illuminating him in a ghostly white light that made his already pallid skin translucent. His fingers tracked across the keyboard, tapping out sentence after sentence, pausing occasionally to stab a nail-bitten fingertip at the Return key. After ten minutes’ frantic typing, Martin sucked in a huge breath, his chest puffing out like that of a prizefighter who has suddenly realised his opponent is bigger and stronger than he’d been led to believe, and he reached over to click his mouse, to send the email he’d been crafting the past hour.
“Touch that mouse and you’ll regret it,” a voice said, its command stopping Martin’s hand as it hovered above his mouse, a trembling finger poised to push down. “Don’t do it Glover, we’ll slice you in half from here before you’ve even finished the thought it thr…”
The voice was interrupted by a cackle of laughter. “Too late for that, Scott, that thought took place a long time ago, way before you considered me a threat. The email has already gone. You’re too late. I was just about to delete it.” Martin began to turn in his chair, to face the interruption. As he did so, he used his elbow to click the mouse, an almost indiscernible ‘tick’ as it did his bidding, sending the email out into the ether.
Suddenly, a bright sweep of light sped towards Martin, slicing his prone body across his torso, blood squirting in an arc of red, splashing as it met walls and floor. Moments later, four bodies were leaning over Martin’s quivering form; he was still alive. Just. His laboured breathing a sign that soon, his life would be ending.
“Why Martin? Why? It could have all been so different. Now, well, now you’ll know the suffering you’ve brought on so many others by your recent actions.” A smile flickered across Martin’s face, but his eyes betrayed his fear. He tried to spit at his assailants but the wound in his chest burbled blood as his lungs tried to expel the air. “Sorry Martin, did you have something to say? I didn’t quite catch that remark.”
When he said nothing, Scott raised one hand. It was the sign that they could begin feasting – and they did. Four hungry, sucking mouths pulling at the fleshy edges the lesion on Martin’s chest.

You have one message. Message one, Tuesday 21st April at 9.40pm.
“Hey Martin, you there? Pick up if you are. It’s Scott. Okay, ten seconds says you’re not, so call me when you get this. I’ve discovered something and we need to move fast. Cheers buddy.” Beep.

You have one message. Message one, Tuesday 21st April at 10.05pm.
“Help, fucking help me. Maaaaarrrrr…” Beep.

There is no time left, it’s happening. It’s gone beyond the concept of what we thought they had in mind; it’s taking things too far now. Run. Hide. Do whatever you can to save yourselves. Take weapons, you’ll need them some time later. Speak to no one. Trust? Not even yourself. This email is the last communication; we are being monitored and believe there is little time left. Hope to see some – or all – of you at the designated meeting place. You’ll be informed where that is in the usual way. Best, Martin.

First days, they’re always boring. Time spent in queues, writing my name on a list for subjects I won’t take, meeting people whom I don’t want to meet again. And for what? To be seen to fit in. Well, it’s not for me. All I need to know is: where’s the bar and what time does it open?
It’s weird to find myself here; happened because it was pissing with rain, like someone was spraying the world with a pressure hose, and I wanted to escape a drenching. Ducked into this hall, handed a clipboard and pen and led to a chair. A few ticks later and I’m accepted on a course. Some minor college, this place; a musty smell emanating from the cream-coloured walls and green-tiled floor, as if no one had opened the building up to the outside world for centuries. I’d just left a series of dead-end jobs and wanted to re-educate. This was an opportunity and I took it by the hand and practically raped it in the bushes, so glad was I at not having to trawl the cards in the Job Centre for some God-forsaken existence cleaning bogs, picking up litter, kissing the ass of some idiot in a suit. Besides, I’d already been there more than once and wasn’t up for another visit.
Around me, milling about like bees in a hive, were the other students. Mostly spotty kids, a few tasty female specimens I’d like to acquaint myself with later, but no one that seemed to on my wavelength. A tap on my shoulder and I spun around, prepared to get weighty with whomever was behind me; I didn’t like being tapped by anyone. Stood in front of me was a wiry young man, blond hair gelled to a series of peaks and light stubble across his chin. He was about my height, but I reckoned I could take him in a fight if it came to it.
“Reckon you could ‘ave me in a scrap then do ya?”
I was taken by surprise that he been able to read my thoughts so well. I said nothing, stared at him while trying not to give too much away in my face. It was too late for that I was about to discover.
“Rethinking are we? Well, while you’re standing there wondering let’s get a fucking drink, I’m parched.”
This was my introduction to Scott.

To Be Continued

The Evening That Changed Everything

2007-09-14T11:04:00.000+01:00

It had been a long day, one of those punishing schedules that crushes the spirit, drains your mental faculties until the only speech you’re able to emit sounds like an unintelligible foreigner trying to teach you the Theory of Relativity.
Just one of those days.
The sun was dripping into the horizon, traffic was light on the streets but the bars and restaurants were full of people starting their weekends early. I wanted to hit the sack, get my head down and recover.
I climbed the 15 steps to my apartment, key in the lock. Then I noticed it, the paper pushed under my door. It said in a hurried scrawl:

“Listen to your answer machine.”

I got into my apartment, let the door swing shut with a thud, the lock clicking back into place. I held the paper in my hand, trying to place the writing – whose hand was responsible. I thought of many people – the kid who hangs around outside and says hello to anyone that comes in or goes out the apartment block; the deaf old lady from number 6; the grocery store manager. It didn’t look like any of them.

What intrigued me most was the suggestion of listening to my answer machine. I glanced over, the red light was flashing. I didn’t know who or what was waiting for me on the magnetic tape spooled to catch callers’ messages, details, needs and wants. I pressed play. A female voice crackled through. She said:

“1) Post rules before you give your facts
2) List 8 random facts about yourself
3) At the end of your post, choose (tag) 8 people and list their names, linking to them
4) Leave a comment on their blog, letting them know they've been tagged
then the facts.”

I tried to ignore it. Days and days I left it, not looking at the note (even though I’d taped it to the refrigerator) and I wiped the message from my machine. But each day, on returning to my apartment, the same message was always waiting for me, a new note pushed under my door.

I took to hiding out in my room, listening for the shrill ring of the phone, the sound of footsteps on the parquet flooring, but there was nothing.
Still the notes arrived. And if I ventured outside, I’d always come back to another message, as if someone was watching me, waiting until I left the apartment before calling.
If I hung about outside my own door, trying to catch the phone ringing, it never happened. Still there would be a message for me, the red light blinking an announcement. So, in the hope that these will stop once I follow the instructions, here are eight things about me.

One: I lost my hair at age 22. Early. I was still at University, finishing my finals. Previously, I’d had hair I could sit on, then nipple-length dreadlocks. So, I began to shave it, with a disposable razor, so that only skin would be visible. I grew a small beard so my face wouldn’t look so circular. That was 1995.

Two: I have suffered from an eating disorder for about 10 years. I have it under some sort of control and I self-medicate, mainly because doctors assume it’s about thinking I look fat. It’s not. It’s as far from that as it could be.

Three: I like an occasional smoke of the herb. Enough said.

Four: I love fashion and have, in the past, spent huge sums of money on clothing, shoes and bags. This has led to people questioning my sexuality. Idiots.

Five: I have been arrested once in my entire life: about six weeks ago, I stepped off the train and someone walked into me. I held up my hands in an apologetic way and he said, “Oh, you’re one of those.” Upon asking what “one of those” was, he preceded to abuse me with homophobic statements. I phoned the police, they arrested me. Go figure. The case was dropped after reviewing CCTV evidence.

Six: All the stories I write have an element of the truth within them; either a personal experience or one that has been related to me through a friend or a newspaper article. This one has eight truths and they are easier to spot.

Seven: I once spent two months of my life living in a tree as part of a road protest. It’s not recommended, but we did save some trees and sites of scientific interest. For my sins I appeared in several documentaries and one Coldcut music video. I also attended several public demonstrations, most notably the Criminal Justice Bill and the Poll Tax demonstrations. I was probably classed as a rioter, even though I never broke anything.

Eight: I don’t know eight people that I can link to who would have the time (or inclination) to do this.

I only hope and pray that this will be the end of the messages, the notes under my door, the intrusion into my life. Please, I beg you. Stop.

Didn't Say Goodbye

2007-08-20T17:51:00.000+01:00

“Ow, Mum!” She says it, matted hair sticking out in all directions, but we both know it doesn’t hurt, that the struggle and complaining is a game, a suspension of reality. So I scold, “Shut it, you’re going to have it brushed,” and I rip the brush through the hair, but the speed and vigour create static electricity and her hair floats up in ethereal peaks. “Ow!” she says and we laugh nervously, so fragile the façade, the roles reversed.
We settle down to watch the tail-end of a daytime TV show, where members of the public share their stories, often extreme and outlandish. “You couldn’t make it up,” she says. The caption reads like a tabloid headline: I had your baby but gave it away because you’re my brother!
Sometimes we try and think up a subject more fantastic, but rarely do we manage it; our lives not worth the attention of a baying studio audience and so we have nothing from which to construct our fake – yet infinitely more exciting – lives.
Next, the news.

What to eat? The decisions can take up hours of our time as we swap the names of the dishes we’d like to have served to us, the food piled high on gleaming silver platters and carried by tall, bronzed hunks, our family, that Robbie Williams (but before he had those tattoo-things). She says. And I agree. My head nodding, my Adam’s apple mirroring the movement as I swallow my grief. So we order: pizza topped with king prawns, no Parma ham and oyster mushrooms; apple pie and clotted cream; shepherd’s pie; cod and chips with mushy peas. But it’s tomato soup. Again. While it heats on the stove I pop upstairs to grab a fresh towel to use as a bib. She’d hate to get a stain on her new nightdress.

Every other day I move the pictures around so she has something different to look at. Now and again, we’ve talking about moving the sofa that has been commandeered as her bed, but I can’t shift it on my own. Not that she’s able to move without a wheelchair. So it’s pictures for now. Today I bought a new one. It depicts a summer meadow. As I show it to her she coughs. “Ooh, I like the poppies speckled through the grass,” she says. They smudge under her finger as she points at them. “Yes,” I reply.

Occasionally, I have to lock myself in the bathroom – it’s the room furthest from her bed. It’s the only place I can go where I can’t hear the wheeze, the burble of fluid. It’s a place where she can’t hear me shed tears. “I’ve got something in my eye,” I’d say, hoping to deflect attention away from my reddened eyes. She always replies the same: your eyeball. She probably picked that up from my Dad, so typical it is of his wit.

We’ve exhausted all the photos. Each one marked a hundred times with greasy fingerprints where we’d spent the afternoon eating hot buttered toast. They stop suddenly about a month back, as if history no longer wanted to take notice of our small part of the universe, had deemed it too distressing to collate and file, to archive in some dim, airless basement of the mind. The day blonde hair turned to brown synthetic fibres. No one likes a photo that doesn’t make them look good.

“Death is coming,” she says late one afternoon. Startled, I look about me trying to see the black cloak and sharpened scythe. “I wonder what presents you’ll get this year?” Only then do I realise I must’ve misheard and she was talking about Christmas, only a few months away now. And so, like the meals we imagined we discuss our ultimate gift lists; neither of us says we want her to live, to see another new year, even though it’s top of the list. Our reverie is interrupted by the sullen beep of her monitor. It’s time to change her morphine drip.

I greet my father at the door with a grimace. We do not share proper conversation, both of us waltzing around the subject, afraid to upset the balance, to break the protective bubble of silence. We exchange grunts, noises, a clap of hand on the shoulder. Somehow it doesn’t feel like a break for me, that I’m being relieved of a duty that was placed on me at my birth, but it is. A break for both of us, me and my mother.
I close my eyes as the whistle of the kettle screeches on until the gas underneath it is turned off, and I picture my father’s shaking hands as he lifts it up to fill his cup. Sure enough, I see him reach for the tea towel to mop up the spilled water. I turn the TV on, flicking through the channels they receive on the dust-coated remote control, sticky with years of sweat and dirt, the numbers and button functions faded or missing. There is only news. I switch it off. There’s already enough unhappiness in the air, I don’t need to see the suffering of others, even if it’s caused by my government in my name.

The pears rot on the tree this year. The weeds have crept to knee-high in just a few weeks. But I don’t let on. I don’t want to spoil happy memories. She may have lost many things but I’ll do whatever I can to protect her from more unnecessary suffering. We time the gardeners’ visit to the hour each week she spends at her consultant’s clinic, but for the past month they have declined to earn what they have termed in their letter as “the paltry sum of eight pounds” and the postcard in the corner shop’s and newsagent’s windows have yet to elicit any response. Perhaps the winter will be harsh this year and nature will respect my mother’s hard work over 20 years; I know already that nature has respect for nothing and no one, the God she spent her life worshipping even less. Once this week I’ve taken a large knife outside, indiscriminately hacking away at the plant life around me, releasing the anger. It helps me cope.

But today I come inside, there is no kettle, there is only silence. And I know the wheezing has stopped, know that it won’t start again. Images rush past my eyes, the taste of metal in my mouth and I’m off running. The chance to say goodbye has gone, passed away. And so I keep running long after the burning in my chest forces me to vomit, long after the pain in my side increases to the point where I think it can’t get any worse, up until I collapse exhausted.

The Early Morning Walk

2007-07-05T15:38:00.000+01:00

Turn left at the junction into Mulberry Gardens, a small development of starter homes built in the 1980s to house the commuters flooding into the area hoping to catch the coat tails of the financial boom encapsulating the nearby city. You’ll see the quaint, neat lawns, some levelled with concrete to provide a hard-stand for the car, even though the road sees little traffic thanks to its no-through-road status. The numbers run even on the left, 2-8, and odd on your right, numbers 1-9. There is a piece of wasteland, grown over with brambles and nettles where you may presume house number ten should have been, but it’s not. Perhaps the developer ran short of money; perhaps there is simply not enough room for another dwelling, who knows? It’s something to ponder while you locate the small path that runs between numbers six and eight. The sun is about to make itself known, beyond, over the hills. It’s time to hurry.

Find the oak tree. From here you can climb up through the larger lower branches and get an unobstructed view of the cul-de-sac. But there’s no moment to pause here. Listen carefully and you may catch the drifting clang of the alarm clock before it’s silenced by a hand, or pillow. There is a light in the upstairs window of number three, visible through a crack in the curtains where yesterday they were hastily tugged together to shut out the night. And, in a blink, the light is extinguished. Watch as it travels down the stairs and into the back of the house, because this is where the kitchen is to be found with its stainless steel kettle, crumb-coated toaster and the worktop stained with rings of tea from dirty mugs, spilled wine and the years of frantic food preparation while hosting amateur dinner parties.

The light travels to the front of the house again. As it’s scattered through the rippled glass panels in the UPVC door, you notice the empty milk bottles, a folded piece of paper conveying the cancelling of the daily delivery, or perhaps holding a cheque for payment of the monthly account, rolled into the top of one of the bottles awaiting the arrival of the milkman. An archaic tradition, one seen rarely anywhere but rural locations such as here in Mulberry Gardens, where the distance to the local supermarket makes even the high price of milk in glass bottles worth paying for. And then, in the flick of a switch, the light is swallowed by the eerie half-dark of dawn breaking.

Watch as a figure emerges. They turn right, coming towards you. The foliage of the great oak, and height of your perch, hides you even as the sun makes its first forays over the distant tree-lined horizon. Still you hold your breath as they pass, a smudge of black beneath you. It’s time to drop down and follow before you lose sight of them in the dark.

The soft, dew-dipped grass masks the clump of boots as we watch the figure move down the footpath towards the faint sparkle of the city, some half hour away by road. Brush past the creeping fingers of ivy that cascade like a swarm of locusts down the pitted brick wall and then you’ll be at the twisting lane that runs to the farm, its high banks sprouting thin tree trunks and hard chalk flints to catch careless drivers or distracted cyclists. And that’s when you hear it, the hoot of the train as it wriggles through the valley on its wheeled belly, so faint, like the smell of jasmine on the breeze as you pass the stile on the boundary of the fields.

Step across the wooden plank and down and in an instant long wet stems of grass shroud everything below your knees, the colour of your trousers darkening where the fabric’s weave draws in the moisture as you walk. There are large, drunken bees already out to harvest the pollen, buzzing amongst the half-opened blooms that are dotted along the hedgerows and across the grass of the fields. Solitary trees stand guard, acting as nature’s scarecrows; just as ineffective as the bundle of rags and straw flopping like a fish out of water when the wind whips unmercifully over the rutted earth, crucified on scaffold poles like some hideous parody of Christ. And there it is again, nearer this time, the same aching sound of wounded cattle too exhausted to fight against the mud that is claiming them, the train mooing out to warn early morning drivers and passengers that it is coming and to clear the crossings and prepare for arrivals and departures. It’s time to quicken our stride.

At the end of the field lies a gate leading to a tight, narrow path, the grass balding in the centre to show earth smoothed by the feet of humans and dogs. But you will ignore this and instead duck under the barbed wire to follow the figure ahead of us. The sun is up enough now that we can see it’s a woman. She is not hurrying, but she has purpose to her walk. She is dressed in a light coat and dress, her white shoes looking like rabbits’ tails bobbing in the grass. She has not noticed you and there is something in her posture to suggest she wouldn’t stop nor hurry if she knew you were there, behind her, stalking. It’s only now that you notice the rumble, the clack of the tracks as the train approaches.

The undergrowth is getting dense and more of your clothes are wet now, but you know they’ll dry quickly once the sun pulls itself up above the surrounding hills, its rays breaking through the splatter of clouds that are skipping across the sky, burning away the moisture to leave a hot and humid day. But then without warning you’re clear of the trees, the fields and the snagging thorns and stinging nettles. There is no time to react. There is the train. Loud, black, engineered metal stampeding on the rails. It’s deafening, but still a single sound can be picked out, like a flattened note in a blues scale. It’s the sound that makes you look up.

Only then do you realise it’s you who has spoken. One word. Jump. By that time it’s too late to save yourself.

Unresolved (A Draft)

2007-07-02T14:56:00.000+01:00

It was at the supermarket that Nathan first met Jon. He was Nathan’s manager. Squat body with bandy legs and chest hair that seemed to grow to his chin. No front teeth. Lost them to a lamppost that jumped him late one night. Bloodied his nose. He let Nathan look at the small white shards of tooth that poked from his swollen gums. Nathan recalled Jon’s meaty hands on his shoulders as he tilted his head back away from him; if Nathan hadn’t known him well he might have thought Jon had done it so he didn’t have to smell the stale cigarettes and last night’s beer on his breath.
Afterwards Jon had given Nathan a dressing down for wearing black shoes with his brown uniform. He made sure Nathan knew the difference between being friend and being boss.

On Saturday nights, once the supermarket had closed, a group of workers from the supermarket all piled to the pub, a shallow building looming over the graves in the local cemetery, it’s yellow lights throwing a malevolent glow across the tombstone-lined paths. Occasionally, someone – usually Jon – would run ahead and hide, jump out with banshee shouts to scare us. Once, he confessed to Nathan, pressing up uncomfortably against him at the bar, that he’d made a girl piss her pants doing that trick. Nathan excused himself and took his drink over to the flashing lights of the fruit machine, his free hand tapping the shrapnel in his trouser pocket.
Even though he wasn’t legally allowed to drink by two or so years, someone always slipped a double shot of vodka into Nathan’s cola. Often it was Jon buying the drinks, his gappy mouth and damaged gums grimacing as he called Nathan’s name.
Sundays, Nathan would have to sleep late to get rid of the dull ache in his head. Jon would like to ask how debilitated Nathan had been on Sundays. It’s not as if Nathan had to get to church, it was something he could handle.
Jon told him it was part of growing up. Like losing your teeth.

They huddled, like pensioners caught in a crosswind. The hubbub of the public house played out ahead of them. Apart from Nathan, there were six others; Nathan didn’t know all their names and he couldn’t recall them ever asking for his. Somehow they’d congregated, flotsam caught by a stray, snagging branch. Nathan was nursing a pint, surreptitiously slurping the bitter ale one of the others had seen fit to buy him.
Bryan was one of those whose name Nathan did know. Bryan worked in the Dairy section at the supermarket. He nodded at Nathan. It was the extent of every conversation they had ever had since Nathan had started at the supermarket with a Thursday afternoon, three-til-eight shift.
Bryan loved magic, the art of it. He reached towards Nathan, eyes winking. Then, sitting back, he nodded to the table in front of Nathan. There was a set of tarot cards, the pack decorated with detailed paintings of mythical beasts and topless women. Nathan scooped them up with his right hand, just as Bryan had taught him. Nathan showed his right hand. Empty. Grinning, he showed his left hand, palm up. Empty, too. Bryan smiled, gulped at a lager top in a knobbly pint glass with a handle. His eyes never left Nathan’s hands, watching closely as Nathan reached into his jacket, producing the cards with a theatrical flourish. Bryan stood. He promised to get Nathan a “proper drink” as he weaved his way towards the crowded bar.
Nathan pulled a card from the pack. Tonight, he would be Justice. Tomorrow he would find out how to do a reading. First, he had a pint to finish and a story that fat Tony was telling to listen to.

Ugly as fuck she was, but an arse to die for. Buffed her from behind, she… Nathan switched off, knowing that Tony was embellishing almost every word of this story with a double helping of bullshit, topped off with a cherry the size of London. Everyone knew Fat Tony liked men. Everyone except Tony; he wouldn’t admit it - even to himself - thinking that other people saw him as a hard man, a likeable nutcase who wouldn’t want to get down to the dirty business of licking a puckering, shit-flavoured hole. His two convictions, the whole sorry saga of being caught on his knees, another man’s cock in his mouth, in a foul-smelling public toilet, broadcast in the local paper. That’s why he was known as Fat Tony, so no one had to mention his real name in public, lest someone who didn’t know him by sight wanted to vent some pent up rant about homosexuality. Nathan distrusted anyone that didn’t like Fat Tony; that he was gay didn’t matter. Not like it did to Nathan’s father.
Fat Tony was once welcome at Nathan’s house. That was before Nathan’s father had learned that Fat Tony’s real name was Gordon Franklin. Bum bandit, turd burglar, cocksucking queer, poof, homo. A tirade directed at Nathan, as if it were an accusation made of him. He never told Fat Tony why he wasn’t welcome anymore; something passed between them in a quick glance that somehow prevented Fat Tony from asking and Nathan from explaining. Two years had passed them by since then. A little longer than the last time Nathan had seen his parents. The last time they’d seen him.
The clunk of a full pint of lager being placed in front of him brought Nathan out of his daydream. Drink up, someone said, we should get going soon. Nathan gulped, the lights of the pub swirling and dancing through the amber liquid as it cascaded down his throat.

They were running from the police. No headlights. Scarf at the wheel of the coach. They’re buffeted like tourists on the underground at 8am. Trees screech their branches against the windows. Scarf says he needs the lights on. He flicks his finger and the cones of bright lights come on in time to illuminate the tree with which the coach is about to collide. Scarf wrenches the wheel to the right but it’s too late.
The coach stops and all they can hear are a distant owl hooting and the tinkling rain of broken glass. I guess we’re camping here for the night, says Scarf. Voices laugh, a way for people to announce they’re okay. Nathan joins in.

Over the next three hours they set a fire and wait for the rest of the group to join them. They sing songs. At some point, Nathan walks away from the celebrations, winding his way through the trees. He can see lights in the distance, knowing before he’s even close enough to verify that they belong to his parents’ house. His home. He wonders what they are doing right now: mother, watching Eastenders, father asleep in his chair. Predictable, even though Nathan hasn’t seen or spoken to them for almost two years. This is the closest he’s been for a long time; possibly since the day his mother pushed his bloody, squawking mess into this world.

Just because something blows you away it doesn't make you a lightweight. That's what Nathan told himself as he faced Bryan across the blackened grass that only hours before had held the flames of the campfire. There were words coming at him, head-on; spittle following, fists clenched and ready to come at him too. So Nathan shouted his thoughts, momentarily confusing Bryan and a crease to cut his angry face in two.
Nathan shut his eyes, expecting the punch, waiting for the feel of sweaty flesh and bony knuckles to split his skin, spill his blood. There was nothing, although he could hear Bryan’s laboured breathing, the stale breath making his stomach knot and churn, so he knew something was about to happen.
Squinting, Nathan opened one eye. Bryan was no longer in front of him, he was off to one side, hands limp at his side. Taking his place in front of Nathan was Katie. Just as he was about to speak, she cut him short with a slap. The sting, the redness that was more than embarrassment, the shock of it, all combined in one huge emotional burst and with a quick turn Nathan was running full pelt from the camp. Words rang after him: Don’t. Come. Back. Her voice.
Again, Nathan found himself the outcast.

Leaning back against the gnarled trunk of an oak tree, its leaves whispering peacefully in the weak breeze winding through the woods, Nathan thought back to the day his grandfather had passed away. How, walking back towards home, the clouds had grown sullen, frowning as the news sank in. There on the corner, leaning like a council labourer against the bowing dry-stone wall, was Mrs Kirkbride.
Homely; a word Nathan thought was surely invented to describe Mrs Kirkbride – Gertie to her very close friends (and half the village behind her back, she being the gossipmongers’ choice for their daily tittle-tattle and rounds of spitefulness they liked to advertise as ‘Coffee Mornings’). Closely permed hair nestled under a grubby cloth cap; pinprick eyes cushioned by crinkled skin, so small Fat Tony called them “piss holes in the snow”; a smile that showed no teeth – because, even though you couldn’t tell, Mrs Kirkbride didn’t have any and found dentures uncomfortable. The worst thing – and at that precise moment, a nightmare Nathan was about to endure – was the way she greeted any child in the village.
As Mrs Kirkbride held Nathan in an embrace tighter than a wrestler’s leotard he could feel her nipple pressed against his forehead like a bully’s finger, accusing. Right there and then he knew he’d made the right decision. He definitely needed to get out, get away, escape, to run from something so big he couldn’t face it. The thing that had led him to people like Bryan, Katie, Fat Tony and the rest of the travellers. He'd had enough of the small town mentality, the pain of growing up in this goldfish bowl. It was time for adventure.
Some adventure it had turned out to be. So far.
For Nathan, it was only just beginning.

The Next Path (Extended)

2007-06-27T17:16:00.000+01:00

Just because something blows you away it doesn't make you a lightweight. That's what Nathan told himself as he faced Bryan across the blackened grass that only hours before had held the flames of the campfire. There were words coming at him, head-on; spittle following, fists clenched and ready to come at him too. So Nathan shouted his thoughts, momentarily confusing Bryan and a crease to cut his angry face in two.
Nathan shut his eyes, expecting the punch, waiting for the feel of sweaty flesh and bony knuckles to split his skin, spill his blood. There was nothing, although he could hear Bryan’s laboured breathing, the stale breath making his stomach knot and churn, so he knew something was about to happen.
Squinting, Nathan opened one eye. Bryan was no longer in front of him, he was off to one side, hands limp at his side. Taking his place in front of Nathan was Katie. Just as he was about to speak, she cut him short with a slap. The sting, the redness that was more than embarrassment, the shock of it, all combined in one huge emotional burst and with a quick turn Nathan was running full pelt from the camp. Words rang after him: Don’t. Come. Back. Her voice.
Again, Nathan found himself the outcast.

Leaning back against the gnarled trunk of an oak tree, its leaves whispering peacefully in the weak breeze winding through the woods, Nathan thought back to the day his grandfather had passed away. How, walking back towards home, the clouds had grown sullen, frowning as the news sank in. There on the corner, leaning like a council labourer against the bowing dry-stone wall, was Mrs Kirkbride.
Homely; a word Nathan thought was surely invented to describe Mrs Kirkbride – Gertie to her very close friends (and half the village behind her back, she being the gossipmongers’ choice for their daily tittle-tattle and rounds of spitefulness they liked to advertise as ‘Coffee Mornings’). Closely permed hair nestled under a grubby cloth cap; pinprick eyes cushioned by crinkled skin, so small Fat Tony called them “piss holes in the snow”; a smile that showed no teeth – because, even though you couldn’t tell, Mrs Kirkbride didn’t have any and found dentures uncomfortable. The worst thing – and at that precise moment, a nightmare Nathan was about to endure – was the way she greeted any child in the village.
As Mrs Kirkbride held Nathan in an embrace tighter than a wrestler’s leotard he could feel her nipple pressed against his forehead like a bully’s finger, accusing. Right there and then he’d made a decision. He needed to get out, get away, escape, to run from something so big he couldn’t face it. The thing that had led him to people like Bryan, Katie, Fat Tony and the rest of the travellers. He'd had enough of the small town mentality, the pain of growing up in this goldfish bowl. It was time for adventure.
Some adventure it had turned out to be. So far.
For Nathan, it was only just beginning.

The Next Path

2007-06-14T10:46:00.001+01:00

A Little Something Revisited

2007-05-16T10:50:00.000+01:00

Another Excerpt

2007-05-14T12:36:00.000+01:00

They huddled, like pensioners caught in a crosswind. The hubbub of the public house played out ahead of them. Apart from Nathan, there were six others; Nathan didn’t know all their names and he couldn’t recall them ever asking for his. Somehow they’d congregated, flotsam caught by a stray, snagging branch. Nathan was nursing a pint, surreptitiously slurping the bitter ale one of the others had seen fit to buy him.
Alec was one of those whose name Nathan did know. Alec worked in the Dairy section at the supermarket. He nodded at Nathan. It was the extent of every conversation they had ever had since Nathan had started at the supermarket with a Thursday afternoon, three-til-eight shift.
Alec loved magic, the art of it. He reached towards Nathan, eyes winking. Then, sitting back, he nodded to the table in front of Nathan. There was a set of tarot cards, the pack decorated with detailed paintings of mythical beasts and topless women. Nathan scooped them up with his right hand, just as Alec had taught him. Nathan showed his right hand. Empty. Grinning, he showed his left hand, palm up. Empty, too. Alec smiled, gulped at a lager top in a knobbly pint glass with a handle. His eyes never left Nathan’s hands, watching closely as Nathan reached into his jacket, producing the cards with a theatrical flourish. Alec stood. He promised to get Nathan a “proper drink” as he weaved his way towards the crowded bar.
Nathan pulled a card from the pack. Tonight, he would be Justice. Tomorrow he would find out how to do a reading. First, he had a pint to finish and a story that fat Tony was telling to listen to.

They’re running from the police. No headlights. Scarf is at the wheel of the coach. They’re buffeted like tourists on the underground at 8am. Trees screech their branches against the windows. Scarf says he needs the lights on. He flicks his finger and the cones of bright lights come on in time to illuminate the tree with which the coach is about to collide. Scarf wrenches the wheel to the right but it’s too late.
The coach stops and all they can hear are a distant owl hooting and the tinkling rain of broken glass. I guess we’re camping here for the night, says Scarf. Voices laugh, a way for people to announce they’re okay. Nathan joins in.

Over the next three hours they set a fire and wait for the rest of the group to join them. They sing songs. At some point, Nathan walks away from the celebrations, winding his way through the trees. He can see lights in the distance, knowing before he’s even close enough to verify that they belong to his parents’ house. His home. He wonders what they are doing right now: mother, watching Eastenders, father asleep in his chair. Predictable, even though Nathan hasn’t seen or spoken to them for almost two years. This is the closest he’s been for a long time; possibly since the day his mother pushed his bloody, squawking mess into this world.

A Little Something

2007-04-19T10:48:00.001+01:00

It was at the supermarket that I first met Jon. He was my manager. Squat body with bandy legs and chest hair that seemed to grow to his chin. No front teeth. Lost them to a lamppost that jumped him late one night. Bloodied his nose. He let me look at the small white shards of tooth that poked from his swollen gums. I remember his meaty hands on my shoulders as he tilted his head back away from me; if I hadn’t known him I might have thought he’d done it so I didn’t have to smell the stale cigarettes and last night’s beer on his breath.
Afterwards he’d given me a dressing down for wearing black shoes with my brown uniform. He made sure I knew the difference between being friend and boss.

On Saturday nights, once the supermarket had closed, we all piled to the pub, a shallow building looming over the graves in the local cemetery, it’s yellow lights throwing a malevolent glow across the tombstone-lined paths. On occasions someone – usually Jon – would run ahead and hide, jump out with banshee shouts to scare us. Once, he confessed to me, pressing up uncomfortably against me at the bar, that he’d made a girl piss her pants once doing that trick. I excused myself and took my drink over to the flashing lights of the fruit machine, my free hand tapping the shrapnel in my trouser pocket.
Even though I wasn’t legally allowed to drink by two or so years, someone always slipped a double shot of vodka into my cola. Often it was Jon buying the drinks, his gappy mouth and damaged gums grimacing as he called my name.
On Sundays I’d have to sleep late to get rid of the dull ache in my head. Jon would like to ask how debilitated I’d been on Sundays. It’s not as if I had to get to church, it was something I could handle.
Jon told me it was part of growing up. Like losing your teeth.

Gone

2007-04-15T11:15:00.000+01:00

But I will be back.

What follows is an intense period of activity involving a short holiday and a house move. Yes, a house move.

I should be back online sometime in early May. I will try to update then.

In the meantime, either pick a link or look back on some earlier work.

purplesimon out...

The Beginnings

2007-03-20T12:16:00.001Z

I wake to garlands of rubbish around my throat; faded crisp packets, sweet wrappers; torn plastic bags, blue but transparent; scuffed plastic bottles, their rims smeared with fetid gunk. I lay, prone, amongst this, as if I’ve been tipped from a rotting bag of household waste. And in a way, I have been.
My clothes are soiled and stained. I wake to another day.
I run a grimy finger along split gums and broken teeth, a gift from the fighting days. Extricate myself from beneath rain-soaked bushes as if I were strawberry milkshake flowing through a straw: one fluid movement. A shadow cast of reminiscence falls across my mind. My favourite flavour, smell: strawberries.
Looking up at the decaying teeth of 60’s architecture. Waking up to a sky that’s always crying, to a population unforgiving; to a place that’s always dark, even before it stumbles into a back alley, before it's sodomised and brutalised by society’s effluent: the homeless, the pimps, the silent killers.
I am the walker. I am the watcher. I document it all. I am invisible, but I am omnipresent.
Not that you’d ever want to meet me.

Standing With Ghosts

2007-02-26T16:17:00.000Z

I stand in the footsteps of ghosts.
The hands of the clock are still;
Weight waiting to be lifted. As I am
To the next floor, where I’ll be greeted

By giggles and the tinkling of piano
Keys. To shouts of “Snap”.
The cries of brothers, the sweat of father
Eyes casting glances for silence.

As all heads bow, give thanks to the Lord
The ghosts engulfed with steam
From bowls of hot fare, that sit beneath
Folded hands, knuckles shown.

And then only chairs, tables set out for games
For lunch. For families no longer.
Only their possessions not possessed.
Their steps an echo of my own.

The Rebirth

2007-01-24T11:51:00.000Z

Good day to the visitors of this blog.

At the top of the page it mentions a grand reopening in 2007. It's not specific about the date and that's why, so far, this will be the only post for January.

It's unlikely there will be more soon. I make no apologies for that. I have my work and it's all-consuming at the moment. Blogs don't pay the bills. Not for me, anyway.

However, I am attending a Poetry Society workshop in late February and I would think this would be a good time to start again. I have some ideas on what to do with this blog, but I will share them with you at a later date. In the meantime, I encourage you to have a look at the list of worthy sites to the right of this page. There you will find much to entertain you.

purplesimon out...

The End

2006-12-13T13:49:00.000Z

If you're reading this post you're probably visiting from another site I'm linked to, or perhaps you've stumbled upon this site via a search query.

Whatever. Please use your back button. This site is dead. This is the last post (cue trumpet).

purplesimon out...

Rest In Peace

2006-11-27T12:22:00.000Z

An explanation is required, so there can be no one that doesn't know the whats, wheres and whys of this decision. Or the what's, where's and why's. Either or.

It's been two years now. Just over, I think, by a couple of weeks. In that time, there have been almost 270 posts on this blog. Not all of those were stories; when I first started this blog, I didn't know what to post and it took me a long time to get around to posting stories only. But I took that decision and since then have posted fairly regularly.

I like writing, but things change. They have to, to keep life fresh and invigorating.

I've made the decision not to post any more fiction to this blog. Ever. I'm actually taking a sabbatical from writing. How long I can't say - I don't know myself.

It's why the last story finished so bizarrely; it's why I have been quiet on the blog front for some time.

So. I'm done.

I'd like to thank those of you who have linked to me over the two years this blog has been up. Your links will remain. Thanks to those who commented and for being a source of inspiration. I will continue to visit as many of you as I can and enjoy the words that you put up for people like me to read.

purplesimon out...

Photos From The Attic - The End

2006-11-27T11:12:00.000Z

Part One of this story can be found here.

Those last days seemed to take for ever to be done with, discarded like a cotton ball on a teenage girl's floor. Three long days that stretched out like a thousand-yard stare; they were almost unbearable. I tried to sleep for as much of it as I could, but the times I was awake I could nothing but think. Think about him, the one I'd got around to dubbing 'The Silent One'.

He who had no voice, or if he did he maintained absolute control over its use. I'd not heard much more than the odd grunt, guttural, as if he could make no noise with his vocal chords. Like Jennie Evans from school after she'd returned, having spent seven weeks in hospital: four for the burns to her throat caused by drinking bleach from a lemonade bottle in some old man's shed on the allotments, another three learning how to make sounds with what was left of her tongue. I recalled a newspaper article from a few years back: Jennie was dead, took her own life. Reckoned on the old man touching her. Four girls and two boys came forward. For once I'd read something of truth in the local paper. I don't know what stunned me more.

Maybe that's how The Silent One came to be without voice? Was he another victim? It was doubtful, but I still shuddered at the thought, at what my mind could do left to its own devices. As I stared at those cracks in the ceiling I began to make patterns, to find threads amongst the chaos spreading from the epicentre. And I could find them, just as I can find patterns in what's been happening to me.

Wherever I want to go, he's there. It's like he's watching me, or controlling me. It was enough to send shivers down my spine. The photo, still intact but looking much worse for the journey I'd taken it on, was on the nightstand by my hospital bed and I had taken to looking at is, talking to it, asking Gramps for help. But they all stared back at me, their mouths no longer able to tell the story, the tale of the photos from the attic.

Photos From The Attic - Part Seven

2006-11-09T17:15:00.000Z

Part One of this story can be found here.

I've often heard the phrase 'felt like I was hit by a truck' but let me tell you, when referring to anything other than actually being hit by a truck, try using something else to describe how you felt. I had to learn the hard way that only being hit by a truck actually feels like it.

I learned there are some things you forget from when you're a kid. My mistake was forgetting my Green Cross Code: look left, look right, look left again. Listen and cross when it is clear. You see, the part that they left out of my lesson way back when was this: when you're close enough to smell the thing you've been searching for the past few weeks, don't just rush out into the road without looking both ways.

Foley had been within an arm's length. I mean, I was about to touch him, he was looking at me as I called his name and then, bam, nothing, blackness. The pain came later.

There's no telling what came immediately after I was hit. Doctors say I was lucky the vehicle wasn't travelling too fast, that there was an ambulance at the scene, countless medical staff available to tend to me on account of the senior citizens' home. I don't feel lucky. I feel cheated.

All the time I lie here, a drip in my arm, catheter in place, plaster covering a good proportion of my body, wires for this, for that and who knows what else, I feel cheated. All of this keeping me alive, all of this mending what was broken. The miracles of modern science. All this and no one can tell me what happened in that jungle, what my Gramps saw. There's no one left to ask now.

The police, they came. Two officers. We went through the routine. They knew I wasn't going to do a runner; even if I did, they suspected I wouldn't get far. That remark drew a chuckle from the younger policeman that even my glare couldn't suppress. If I'd been in his shoes I would've done the same, which is what made me despise him more. I could do nothing about it. Once they'd ascertained I had nothing to do with Foley's death, they weren't all the interested. Except my mute driver. Did I know where he was? What did he look like? Licence plate details? I gave them what I could. I might have neglected to mention any other person, but I was still in shock to find out that Foley had dropped dead there and then on the lawn out front, his heart stopping as the fire truck mowed me down.

My last chance gone in a clutch of the chest, in an agonising cry. My last chance disappearing into bulging eyes and reddened face. It was all I could think about as I stared at the flaking paint on the ceiling of the ward, as I studied the web of cracks spreading from each corner. I had no visitors, no flowers or cards, I only had a photograph, the same one I'd retrieved all those weeks ago from the attic. Only now it had my blood on it. Only now it showed ghosts.

I even hated myself for a moment, believing that I'd caused his death, that I only had myself to blame for his heart attack. All ifs and buts. Truth was, so the police said, he was practically ready to go, he'd had a scare only the night before. He was a dead man shuffling, they said. I wanted to smile at their jokes, but they didn't know what was at stake and I didn't want them fishing about, trying to pick clues from the debris of "just another road traffic accident". I didn't want them getting in my way.

I was lucky that I'd been comatose for most of my time in hospital. My casts were due off in a matter of days. I'd be out again within a week - they needed the beds for those with decent medical insurance. I could recuperate at home, they said. Physiotherapy once a week. I'd be as right as rain, as good as new.

In the days that followed the police visit, I began to plan things again. I knew that he would be about somewhere, that we were in some way inexplicably linked. He might not have a voice, but he could still be made to give me answers I sought.

This story is continued here.

Photos From The Attic - Part Six

2006-10-11T14:55:00.000+01:00

Part One of this story can be found here.

It hadn't occurred to me that they wouldn't let me see him. Once I'd admitted that I wasn't a blood relative it wasn't going to be a case of copying the nightclub queue technique, to go outside, change my jersey, put on a pair of sunnies and try my luck again, this time with a better back-story. It was during an intense flood of anger that the futility of my situation finally dawned on me.

I unclenched my fists, smiled, made placatory comments. I turned away, waving my hands to show the fast-approaching security guards that I was leaving, that I didn't need to be escorted. I turned back towards reception. All eyes were on me, arms folded across chests, mouths held tightly shut. Behind the receptionist's head was a sign.

Rooms 1 - 52. Even.

I let the door bang shut as I left. I'd have to be convincing if I were to get away with what I had planned.

No one was outside waiting, the car that had carried me here off on an excursion with its silent driver. I guess he hadn't considered the problems I'd encountered either: the reluctance of the staff to let me in to see Foley. I kicked at the ground, turning again to see if I was still in the receptionist's headlights; I was, so I kicked the ground again and stalked off towards the street.

Once I knew I couldn't be spotted from the reception area, I scuttled around the back of a large rhododendron bush, it's purple flowers scattering a confetti as I pushed past. I was around the side of the home, a wing stretching outwards in front of me and upwards two storeys.

I took the letter from my pocket, looked closely at the address. There it was: number 16. Foley's room number. I reckoned on it being on the ground floor, possibly the first storey. Whichever it was, I knew I could find a way to see him, to question him; to interrogate. He was the last link and I wasn't going to let things slip away from me now that I was close to finding out some real answers.

All I needed to do was find an open window.

I strolled as casually as I could around the side of the building, the rough of the brick rubbing against my arm as I slid around the corner. I held my breath, waiting for what I thought was the inevitable shout, the "hey, what you doing" voice that would make me run, flee being the only response my body could be relied upon to make in such a situation. But it didn't come and I was able to get some more air into my burning lungs. I stifled a cough and crouched down low, taking small steps forward, bobbing my head up occasionally to see if a room was empty, or if not, whether it held captive a drooling old person, the drugs keeping them pliable but not lucid. Some of the windows had bars stretching vertically, preventing me from accessing the building; only when I found staff rooms were the bars removed and that wasn't a room in which I was willing to try my luck at getting in: a sure-fire trip to the police station heralded such a wanton move.

I had to face facts: I wasn't going to break in.

Once I'd completed the circuit and knew for sure that Foley was beyond my reach, I sighed heavily. I walked away from the home, walked away from knowing what had happened in that jungle, what had made my Gramps the way he was; only one person knew what he had gone through, what he had witnessed and that person was guarded almost as heavily as a President. Or a dictator. I was at a loss, my head hanging down, forehead creased, arms limp at my side.

It was useless; it was time to go home.

And then I heard it, a faint sound at first but becoming louder. It was the distinctive sound of a fire alarm. Somehow, someone had made the impossible come true: the senior citizen's home was being evacuated.

The alarm was soon mixed with the sirens of the local fire brigade. All the patients were out on the lawn; many spaced out on their narcotic cocktails, others lying in beds, IV drips attached to their arms, dark bruises showing against translucent skin. Death-in-waiting, collected together.

I didn't know which one was Foley, whether he was drugged out of his mind or one of those patients able to walk, aided by sticks and zimmers. I scanned the faces from over the road, trying not to catch the eye of the nurses, in case the receptionist recognised me from earlier and made good on her threat to call the cops.

Then, as the fire engines congregated in front of the home, my luck continued to be good. A lone voice spoke out: Hey Foley, you been smoking in your room again?

I looked up. There, with a cigarette clamped in brown, nicotine stained fingers was the person I'd travelled to see. Foley. He was alive after all and only metres away.

All I had to do now was think of a way to approach him without drawing attention to myself. And that's when my luck started to wane.

This story is continued here.

Photos From The Attic - Part Five

2006-09-25T12:46:00.000+01:00

Part One of this story can be found here.

I don't know how far I'd run, but I guessed at a mile or so. There'd been no one on Main Street when I'd fled Johnson's place. It had been deserted, eerie, quiet. I hadn't taken time to look about for long, my legs pumping in time to the pounding of my heart. Even when I felt the burn in my muscles I kept on running, wanting to get away from the dead body, wanting to escape what I'd found, even though the letter was still clamped in my fist. It was the words that were haunting me.

It can't be forgotten, even now that Carter's dead. That boy is out there somewhere and I think he's hunting us down. Come on Johnson, admit it and we can all move on.

Admit it, man; do us all a favour and let's finish it once and for all.

Spilling around my head, dancing through my mind; the words said so much yet so little.

I was leaning over being sick into some bushes when I heard the gentle thrum of the engine, idling on the highway. I knew it was him, my lift. He'd found me. I wiped the string of vomit that dangled from my lower lip with the back of my hand, spitting acid taste and bile on to the grassy verge. Then I turned around, stuffing the letter into my back pocket, not wanting it to become a topic of discussion.

He was sitting in the car, staring straight ahead, waiting patiently.

I'd not given the driver any further thought for some hours, dealing with Johnson had consumed me, but now I came to consider what motive he had for driving me about, what was in it for him. It can't simply have been a coincidence he was 'going my way' and it wasn't fate that brought us together. Something wasn't quite right, was off-kilter and it nagged as I scrunched the gravel beneath my feet and started off towards the car still wiping my hand across my lips, trying to remove all trace of the bile flavour from my mouth. But, I needed to get to Foley's and with my best estimate putting the drive at four hours, I didn't have a choice.

Someone had something to admit to. I wanted to be there when they spilled their guts.

--

The landscape changed as we approached Fellingdale, a small community left isolated when the railroad had been usurped by the six-lane highway that encirlced the capital, fed by arterial roads that spread out through the rest of the country. A sense of urbanisation was creeping in: small, local shops began to appear; litter blew in the light breeze caused by the cars whizzing past or trucks clattering along; dogs ran loose, frayed string cutting into their necks leaving me wondering what they'd been running from in the first place. The sign greeting visitors might as well have said

"You're now entering a poor neighbourhood. Please drive away quickly, do not leave your possessions for one single minute. Trust no one. Now, fuck off. Consider yourself told".

Kids hung about on the street corners, dressed in shorts and dirty t-shirts, some barefoot. I didn't think that this could exist in today's society, such a forgotten community, a desperate and unloved neighbourhood breeding crime, hatred and disillusionment. Once, this had been a thriving enterprise, actually making the local maps in upper case: FELLINGDALE, a stop-off for salesmen, a centre for commerce, a growth town. Everything changed with the building of the ring road. It had occurred almost twenty years ago; Fellingdale had never recovered from that decision to construct the road and the downward slide didn't appear to be halting – despite the few shops, there was no evidence of chainstores removing the 'To Let' signs that adorned every third store.

Snobbily, I thought that this might well be the neighbourhood that my 'chauffeur' – that's what I'd laughingly started to address him as, yet there was not one peep out of him – would have grown up in, perhaps even aspired to live in. I guessed he wasn't fussy about those kinda things; just one look at him and you wanted to give him some change. Although he didn't smell of rotting cabbage, and he drove a car, every other part of him screamed homeless. Tattered shirt, ripped jeans, unruly hair in sharp curls that spattered off in different directions, as if Pollock had styled it. I didn't like how he made me feel about him, the sense of being better.

And, he was so damn quiet it was beginning to unnerve me again, a proper chill down my spine. I started to grind my teeth, look out the window at the pre-fab buildings, the bright shop fronts and the small groups of locals milling about in the midday sun.

I was pulled back to reality when we turned off. Within a few miles things changed. Suburban sprawl, but decidedly richer. Houses getting bigger; lawns neatly trimmed, set off with flowerbeds and sprinklers; "SLOW! CHILDREN PLAYING" signs announcing each new tree-lined avenue. And then we began to slow. Foley had done good, I thought.

But then I saw the sign: Welcome to The Fellingdale Home for Senior Citizens.

Gripping the letter in my clenched fist, I got out of the car, wanting to get away from this man who didn't speak, but at the same time apprehensive of what I might find and of what Foley might tell me.

I hoped that this time I wasn't too late.

This story is continued here

Photos From The Attic - Part Four

2006-09-06T15:09:00.000+01:00

Part One of this story can be found here.

I found the cups. They were so full of mould it was impossible to wash away no matter how many times I placed them under the brown water spraying out of only one working tap. There didn't appear to be any glasses; perhaps he drank straight from the bottle, necking it in short glugs? Not that I wanted a drink. Would've been a bad thing to do.

The whiskey in the bottle was almost gone, empty. There were several empty ones lying in the sink, broken shards with their sheen of fine malted whiskey long since evaporated. There was a local liquor wholesaler's box in the next cupboard. I took a full bottle of the single malt out, left the half empty one standing, guarding the cupboard.

It took me a minute to work it out, for the penny to fall down into a darkened chasm, ears bent to hear any faint splash, wishing it to be bottomless but actually hearing it finally drop after a disappointing ten seconds. I got up. He was still warm, but his chest definitely wasn't going to move again this lifetime. I poured him a glass, left it in his hand; amber-gold splashes on his trousers, mixing with his urine, faeces, as bowel and bladder broke their levees. I picked the photo from his hand, nails already turning white as the blood drained to the lowest point of gravity. Fingers flick, eyes close. A last wheeze of breath, stale with an odour of alcohol and lima beans. Poor fuck: what a life.

I looked about the room. He had to have kept in touch with the others and there was a chance they might go the same way as old Johnson here before me. He'd given me something - there was another, not in the photo and not taking it. Where'd he gone? What'd happened? I surveyed the room, but it revealed that Johnson had lived sparse, hand-to-mouth no doubt, on the social security or maybe a war pension; maybe what he could beg, borrow or steal. I didn't have time to reminisce about a man I didn't know well enough before he'd gone and kicked his bucket from here to the fucking Arctic Circle. Selfish old cunt, the thought coming from nowhere.

I had to leave the place, get out before anyone noticed the old mad had been visited by someone, before word got out that there was a stranger in town. After all, my lift had been suspiciously knowledgeable about my exact destination. I hadn't said a word, as usual, but I hadn't needed to. It was then that I spied the tin under his seat. A rusted, battered and dented biscuit tin, the lid held fast with tape and string. Reaching it meant I had got the full force of Johnson's bowel movements and bladder issues, several times the tin just slipping from my grasp so that by the time I'd finally clamped my fingers tightly around it my head was almost touching Johnson's dick. I gagged but managed to resist the urge to vomit and retrieve the tin.

I pulled at the string, its toughness cutting into my hands leaving thin, bloodless welts that stung as my sweat ran into them. I ignored it, using my teeth to bite through the string. I could hear shuffling from the box; I believed it contained letters and I thought they might say something about my Gramps, about this secret. Finally, after scrabbling for a further minute with the dirty tape, glued on with dirt that had been gathering on the adhesive over several years, the box was open, the contents spilled messily over the floor as I searched them for recent post marks.

I found one. Sent only weeks before. It was from Foley. I figured he was on the right, although I had to accept that he could've been one of the others in the photo, it was difficult to know. My hands trembled as I fumbled with the envelope, suddenly tearing it open when I realised I didn't need to be polite anymore, the dead not being up on the latest etiquette themselves.

It had his address, printed across the top of a letter. He was living upstate, back in the home of his youth. I scanned the neat words, looking for clues to questions, ideas, I didn't know what. And then I saw it, written in his shaky blue and white script, the answer I was looking for: someone who knew what happened. Someone else.

Perhaps.

This story is continued here

Photos From The Attic - Part Three

2006-09-01T14:27:00.000+01:00

Part One of this story can be found here.

Every time we stopped to rest we could hear them, the crack of a branch as it was pushed aside with a hand, the snap of a twig as it gave beneath the weight of a body moving forward; no matter their stealth, we knew they were there. They'd been following us for hours, perhaps drawn by the snuffling sobs of Carter, the youngest in our small band of soldiers. It had taken several hard slaps to his face to get his crying to a low volume. Perhaps they'd heard his wailing; it's not everyday you see a colleague lose their head to a sniper, is it? Perhaps they'd spotted us as we moved out, withdrawing into the shadows offered by the jungle foliage. It could just as easily have been the thwack created by the flailing hands of Smith as he swatted flies, moths, gnats and mosquitoes (he pretended to know the difference, even though we all flapped our hands at any flying insect in case it came at us with a taste for blood). It's not as if we could simply tramp over and ask them: why are you following us?

We were their enemy. They were ours.

I remember it clearly. It often plays in my head at night, the flash as they released the flares, the onerous thump of trees being smacked by machine gun fire; I recall the clicking sound as the leaves were stripped, even above our shouts of panic and the slap of our feet on the muddy ground. Blindly we ran, trying to dodge unseen foe, unseen weapons. From which direction they were coming I do not know to this day, we could have been running towards them at one point such was the fear we all felt. I suffer today, still, from the effects of the acrid smoke; it burned the lining of my lungs, but the army said it wasn't negligent. How can that be? They sent us in there; yes, we were doing our duty, but no one told us it would lead to certain death for so many of us, of them.

The day had started as a typical innocuous day for us new servicemen. We'd been deployed away from the front, to get acclimatised, to learn the ropes. We thought we'd be safe, that we'd be back in the arms of our respective families in no time at all. Three weeks and the closest we'd got to being injured was playing football or burning under the hot Oriental sun. That was all to change after breakfast.

The four of us sat together, a small team of local lads - we'd known each other at school, even though there was a five-year gap between Carter and myself. We were looking out for each other, watching backs and hoping those same people we covered were doing the same for us. You had to stick together, no one wanted to be left alone, to be left out. That's how we came to be hiding out in the jungle, how we came to be under fire. Of course, knowing what I know now, well, it gives things a new perspective. Hindsight is a bitch like that.

I was scraping the last of the egg yolk on my plate, a yellow pond through which I dredged a slice of white bread, the texture of cardboard. It needed yolk to make it palatable, thatÂ’s the army for you. Lieutenant Campson came in, pointed at us, directly. There could be no getting out of it, the first operation. A hush descended on the mess tent; I couldn't manage that last piece of bread, probably would've choked me. That hindsight: might have been best to choke to death than go through what we all went through. Listen lad, it wasn't easy, even for the veteran soldiers, but for us newies it were fucking horrible. Pardon me language.

I'm sorry lad, I'm feeling tired now. I need to rest. It's my lungs, I think I mentioned.

Make yourself useful and get in that kitchen, make yourself a drink. There's a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard above the sink, bring that back with you. And give me that photo again, let me look just once more. Now, let me rest a little; I'll not be able to sleep, not with those screams haunting me, not now you've made me think about it just when I thought it was starting to fade.

This story is continued here

Photos From The Attic - Part Two

2006-08-24T17:28:00.000+01:00

Part One of this story can be found here.

I travel light, just a rucksack with a change of clothes and a few personal belongings. I don't need much; out on the road I can pick up lifts in cars; thumb out, watching as the red tail lights brighten in the nanosecond they caught my intention, the car's back end fish-tailing slightly as the driver brakes harder than necessary. I never hurry, just keep the same pace and then I'll be level with the driver - they ask the same questions: where you going? What's your name? How long you been waiting for a lift? I say nothing, beyond my final destination. They usually counter with something about 'quiet one' and 'suit yourself'.

I slump. I've got things to think about: the tape; the photo, now worn at the edges where a hundred fingers have toyed with it, turning it in greasy palms and rough skin; how I'm going to get to the bottom of my Grandad's story. There has to be answers, things he took to his grave. I just need to figure them out, which is difficult with the whining of this nasally prick sat next to me. I can't forgive him the notion that he's driving me across the country. I need to get out.

Drop me here, I say.

A glance. He sees I am telling, not asking. Sometimes you got to be direct.

There is a crunch as my boots meet the gravel that lines the side of the highway. I nod at the driver and he moves off, giving me the finger as soon as he's put his foot on the gas. I ignore him and walk, thumb out awaiting the next lift. I'm waiting for the right person to pick me up, someone that will let me be, or someone that talks non-stop but asks no questions of me. I'm not in a talkative mood. I take the photo from my shirt pocket and study it as I trudge on through the stumps of grey grass that punctuate the gravel every ten feet or so. The sky melts into the horizon, shimmering as the heat of the day reaches its hottest point, the tarmac bubbling slightly, tyre tracks faintly visible on the highway.

I stop, take the rucksack from my back, no longer a human snail; digging inside I retrieve the bottle of water, slightly warm from my body heat and drink before my thirst makes itself known. I'm immersed in the drink and the photo, so much that I don't hear the car until it's pulled up alongside me and the driver leans out, offering me the vacant seat. They only gesture, not voice. My kind of lift. I get in, silent also, place my rucksack on the back seat, the photo on the dashboard. The door closes by itself as my new chauffeur hits the gas, a slight hint of smoke off the back wheels. I don't even look at him; somehow I know he's heading towards Johnson's town: Johnson is the second person from the left, his arm held slack against my Grandad's shoulder, his teeth yellowed from smoking. I don't know if he's alive, if he's mentally stable. He was the only survivor, aside from my Gramps, and I calculate that he's in his eighties, maybe his nineties. He's old, that much I can guess at, surmise.

The next thing I know it's dark and there is rain streaming down the windshield. I am alone. Panicking, I look about me - my rucksack is still nestled in the back; it looks untouched. The photo is still there, but attached is one of those sticky notes. I peel it off and read:

We arrived, I couldn't wake you. Person you looking for lives here, number 30 Main Street. I leave in three days if you want a lift to the coast.

No name, no sign of anyone. All I know is I'm somehow at my destination, that I am on Main Street.

I grab my rucksack, open the car door and step out on to the waterlogged road, my boots slurping in the inch of mud. I begin to walk towards Johnson's house; it's easy to find, the only one on the block that's in need of a paint, that looks like an old person's abode. Dilapidated, gate broken, weeds that tower over my head; some of the windows have been broken by stones, possibly by the local kids, and have been boarded up by amateur hands. The door is falling apart, as rotten as Hitler's heart. I almost daren't knock, in case it falls into matchwood, into jagged splinters that might dig into my hands, may draw blood.

I have no need. From inside comes a voice, thick with drink, or drugs, a voice that seems to know who I am, why I'm here and knows that I'm looking for the answers that have eluded me for many years. It is a voice that has promise - the promise that I will find out what happened out there, what happened to my Gramps, what made him withdraw.

Perhaps.

This story is continued here

Photos From The Attic - Part One

2006-08-17T16:28:00.000+01:00

C'mon Grandad, the tape's running.

Yep yeah, okay. How does you know that things is recording? How can you tell, like, it's a comp-pooter and there ain't know tape inside it? What if I be telling you all this and then you suddenly discover that this comp-pooter things ain't doing what you thinking it was?

Trust me, Gramps, it's taking down every word. Once you’ve done it I can play it back to you, so you know for sure it's doing its job. Now, tell me more about this photo I found in the attic, please.

Yep yeah, okay. Are you really sure?

Look, let me rewind it, then you...

C'mon Grandad, the tape's running.

Yep yeah, okay. How does you know that things is recording? How can you tell, like, it's a comp-pooter and there ain't know tape inside it? What if I be telling you all this and then you suddenly discover that this comp-pooter things ain't doing what you thinking it was?

Trust me, Gramps, it’s taking down ever...

There, are you happy now, Gramps?

Yep yeah, okay. I believe you. I think. Well, let me see now, give us here that photo, boy, and I’ll be telling you about that time. A dark time it was.

Why was it dark, Grandad?

Yep yeah, okay. Let me tell this story, son. You want to get them there good marks in your school class, don't ya? I see that head a-nodding, but I want to hear you say it to me Billy.

Yes, Gramps, I want to do well at school.

Hmmm. Good to hear that, Billy, good to hear that. Now, back to that photo. Yep yeah, okay, I recall that day clear as a bell. That there is Jack Marriott, him’s Johnson, I forget his first name; the one on the far right we called Skipper, on account of his father being in the Merchant Navy and that there is me. A lot younger then, yep yeah, sure was. I can't remember who took that shot, but I can place it.

I was twenty-three, just turned it, when I was called up. Serve my country – something you won't have to do lad, something you don't want to have to go through. Made me the man I am today.

In what way?

Yep yeah, okay, don't be in-rupting me now! Where was I? Yep yeah, okay, I recall where we were hiding out when this was taken. It's difficult to make out, but this is the back of a jeep, the green camo-flarge cloth acting like a second skin, a barry-er 'tween us and the...

Looking back now, I wonder how he survived, what he must have been through. Mother always said that if you could look her father in the eye you’d never recover from the horrors reflected in them. I used to avoid looking, pushing my eyes to the floor when he engaged me. I keep rewinding the tape, listening to the way he started every sentence with a "Yep yeah, okay", how he spoke in his own distinct way. His choices for the pronunciation of words – comp-pooter, for example – made him sound like a Slavic immigrant or a child. I think he used it as a hiding place, to give an impression of his "lame-brainedness" (mother’s term) or "stupidity" (his step-wife's term; affectionate I'm sure) so that he wouldn't have to relive those sickening shocking experiences, be asked about them. Yep yeah, okay: protective, defensive; collusion between my Grandad and his brain, a safety feature of his human psyche. He never trusted again. Let down once, didn’t want to be burned again, to be scarred, let down and failed. It's all there in his speech, relayed all those years ago for my school project.

Yep yeah, okay – my Grandfather's safety net.

... the back of a jeep, the green camo-flarge cloth acting like a second skin, a barry-er 'tween us and the enemy. We felt protected by it, even though we knew that it could be compromide, that it wasn’t going to stop the dark hand of death from laying them bony fingers on our shoulders, should time come. Yep yeah, okay. Which it did, later. This photo, taken just before, moments it was. I'm suprised it's endourred, given the force we experients; the shaking, the battering of stones against our skulls and dirt showering us from all directions. That's why I’m deaf in he...

I think of him at that moment, animated by his memories. I was fourteen when I made that tape. It's as if it were yesterday; the bees lazily bumbling past my ears as we sat by the flower-beds, their humming like static on the recording. I was using my old computer, some kind of grey, faceless box, which to my Gramps was like something out of a science fiction novel; to me it's dated, old media – clunky and heavy like the caresses of an young, unskilled boy upon a woman's breast. There had to be more going on behind those eyes I avoided than anyone knew, there simply has to be.

I look at the photograph from the attic, stare at it intently, yet I still cannot plumb the depths of my Grandad's thoughts, to see what he saw. To me it's four smiling men, huddled together, displaying a camaraderie that isn’t forced. There is genuine love captured here. It's the same love that you can pick up on as Grandad's voice overflows from the tinny speakers of my portable player. What I don't know is how it came to be that only two of them returned from the war. They were meant to be away from the front, just learning the ropes.

I know that, had the tape survived the past years and not been damaged by rain, the slightly acidic water pouring through a hole in the roof tiles – thankfully not spoiling the faint photographs contained within a cardboard box stored only feet away from the deluge – then we might have known more. Perhaps.

What I struggle with most is that I can't remember anything he told me that day. Not one single word of it.

This story is continued here

Lights, Camera, Action

2006-08-04T10:43:00.000+01:00

Steve is telling us his story.

He's quiet spoken, his manner, pensive.
Lines crease his forehead as he thinks, as he articulates exactly what happened, how he ended up sitting at the side of the road, the four heads of his family splattered like watermelons back at his home while he rocked back and forth, whimpering like a puppy, tears streaming down his face.

He says he has no recollection of events, no ideas how he came to be sitting on the overpass, how he came to have four pints of blood splashed on this clothes, yet no discernible wounds; some sort of amnesia, we get to thinking, perhaps selective on account of the trauma.

It's not unheard of. People blot stuff out, erase it from the mind when it becomes too much to handle, too difficult to store for long periods of time; it's volatile, inflammable.

Steve is being capricious. The Doc says he's had a bang on the head, even though he can't find any puncture wounds, no bruising. Even the Doc admits he's not seen anything like it in almost 30 years of work. Never. It's unprecedented. So the Doc says.

I find myself almost hypnotised by Steve's drawl, the way he hangs on certain vowels. I watch as his mouth twists, the left-hand side lifting, streaking lines across his face. His eyes are darting, occasionally stopping like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Usually when we show him the photos. He stops, works stuck in his throat, choking him like chicken bones. No one goes to help. We all watch, transfixed. He turns red, raspberry, beetroot, blackberry. A slap brings him out of it, the mark of my hand tattooed on his cheek, a slime of blood smeared from lip to ear. He continues his story, the same as before:

Donotknowdonotknooooooooooowwwww.

I have to believe him.

I stand, the orange plastic chair tacked to the backs of my knees scraping its metal legs against the concrete floor as I straighten up. We've all had enough, especially Steve. Our eyes lock; his pleading, mine judging. It's stalemate. I leave the room, I need air.

I re-enter. Steve is telling us his story. His manner is quiet, pensive. His voice, ditto. I look about for a chair: take the plastic, orange-coloured monstrosity, scarred with a million cigarette burns, spillages of coffee, of unknown fluids. I look at Steve as I place the four spindles of metal on the floor, teeth gritted as the scraping plugs the flow of words mumbling, tumbling from Steve's mouth. I nod. Steve carries on, telling us his story.

I look about. Paint peeling, blue shards undulating in the breeze of the desk-top fan that sits on the Formica table in front of me, the barrier that separates me from Steve. I can hear him. Donotknowdonotknow. A keening whisper, a sound that will haunt me. I have to believe him. He says he has no recollection. It's not unheard of.

I write down the events as they currently stand, throwing paper in front of the fan so it blows into Steve's face. He stops, shock painting his face, powdering it white, ghost-like. It's a technique, to wake them, to shock them.

Them = person + guilt.

Hands dug deep into my faded 501s, shirt tails flapping as the fan oscillates towards me. I stare. I know of people who blot things out, erase them; they are too much to contemplate, to replay like the Super 8 cine films of our youth. They can't be stored for long periods of time; they're volatile, thrashing about, verbally. It's the trauma; it has a medical name just so the courts can apportion blame, costs, damages.

I stand, quickly. The chair scrapes on the floor. Steve winces. I wink at him, tell him it's time for a cup of tea, for a break; it's a chance for him to remember, to recall, to reminisce.

I leave the room. I need air.

I can hear Steve, telling us his story, but now his voice is muffled by the chipboard door, its surface littered with the scars of so many confessions and a good deal of frustration. I need air.

I re-enter. Steve is silent. No one is asking him questions. All eyes are on the tape recorder, the old, battered tape recorder; it had been mine, when I was growing up, when I wanted to be a singer and I recorded myself tunelessly bawling out the hits of the Jackson 5. I wanted to be black. If I'd known what I know now, I'd have written to Michael - hey, Mikey, wanna change colour now? And gender?

I wipe these thoughts from my head. Concentrate, I say to myself; over-and-over: mantra number one. I reach over towards Steve, see his eyes flinch, his head involuntarily jerk backwards, as if I were about to hurt him. It's a sign; the first. He is remembering. Wrist flicks, tape turns. Recording, the red light indicates. I pick up a piece of the paper on which the events are documented. I look for another sign that he remembers.

I can hear Steve telling us his real story. His confession is coming out like a bullied schoolboy who's decided it's better to come clean than to be beaten for being different: I know he's holding something back. I stare, he stops. It's a technique, to wake them, to shock them. The red light is on, it's a focus.

I stand. Steve is shouting now, wanting to unburden himself of his crimes, telling us how he shot his wife, his kids. He shows remorse, wants to right the wrong. I tell him I don't believe him, that he doesn't look like the kind of man that could pull off such a crime, wouldn't be able to squeeze his pinky around the cold steel of the gun's butt, his index finger curled like a cat around feet feeling the trigger, feeling the tightness.

You are nothing,
I say.
Nothing.

He starts to cry again, head buried in his hands. I see the red light on the tape recorder, that little LED shining, the colour of the blood oozing from Steve's family in the photographs.

I need air.

I can hear Steve telling us his story, wailing his confession through the concrete walls, through the steel door, through the vacuum of his nightmare. I bring to mind Steve's features, the way the skin pleats on his forehead when I show him the photos, the four heads of his family, their blood sprayed like graffiti on a billboard, bathing him in a scarlet rain. He shakes when I tell him how he was found rocking back and forth, whimpering like a child locked in the dark and dust beneath the stairs or chased by an imaginary monster from under the bed. How there were hot, stinging tears caressing his face, bringing a blush to his cheeks.

I pull open the door, the strength of my entry stopping Steve's tears, the only sound is his snot being snuffled back into his sinuses every few beats of his heart. His eyes, wet, as expectant as a mother with her swollen belly cupped in her arms, they stare at me, hopeful.

I'm sorry Steve
I say
You've not made it this time. Please can you leave the set now.

Thank you
He replies
Calm now, the acting over.
Thank you for the opportunity.

Steve,
I call him back.
Get your teeth fixed.

Next
I shout.

I need air.

Where There's A Will

2006-07-19T14:13:00.000+01:00

I was asked to write a short story by Raynwomaan that relates to a letter of the alphabet. She kindly chose the letter for me, here. Just in case you’re like me and can’t work it out, it’s the ‘W. Anyway, below is my effort. It’s a children’s story. Sort of.

William waited, watching for any movement on the road. He knew it would take a while for them to arrive and he thought, wistfully, about the time he’d last clapped eyes on his sister, Winifred.

As he waited it felt as if there was some magic that was making the clock hands go widdershins, it had been so long since his sister had been in his life. Sometimes it felt like a world away. He stood up, his excess body weight forcing him to waddle his way to the kitchen, his many chins wobbling every which way. He needed a cup of tea, something to calm him down. While he admitted that he was looking forward to seeing Winifred, something made his heart flutter, as if there was a weakening of sorts happening inside his chest.

The kettle whistled as it came to the boil and William lifted it gingerly, the handle feeling white hot against his clammy skin. Why was he feeling so weird?

The hours passed by and Winifred had yet to appear, to come knocking at the door, and William realised he missed the familiar whack of her hand as it connected with the wood. He decided something must have happened to his sister on her way to his home, something that, when he let his mind wander brought fear winging its way to his heart.

“I can’t just sit around here, waiting,” William said to himself. “I can’t wonder any longer about what might have occurred on the way here. I’m off to find out, I’m off to wander the surrounding area to find my sister.

And so, William left his home for the first time in, well, in weeks.

Once he was outside, William discovered that changes had come about since his last venture into the big wide world . A wall of spiky thorns had sprung up and created an impenetrable forest that William felt sure he’d never get through. And perhaps he wouldn’t have, had the wizard not suddenly appeared beside him, whispering in his ear.

We will never know what the wizard spoke into William’s ear that day, but whatever it was it seemed to galvanise his spirit. People still talk about what happened that day in reverential tones.

They talked in hushed voices about how William had picked up a sword and begun to hack his way through the forest of thorns as if in a frenzy. Later, stories emerged that Winifred, William’s sister was being held captive in her home by an evil witch and the wizard had been the bearer of the news. It was this information that had made William whisk himself off through the thorny forest at great speed. No one else had been able to hack their way through, which just goes to prove: where there’s a Will there’s a way .

THE END

The Easiest Things To Do, The Hardest Things To Say

2006-06-26T18:23:00.000+01:00

Dear A,
The worst thing you can do, so they say, is start a letter with a cliché, but I have to: by the time you read this it'll be too late to stop the series of events that'll end with you walking into the kitchen, reaching across the smooth granite surface and removing the large carving knife from the walnut block. Will your hand tremble?

By now, you'll have concluded that it's my handwriting; the doctor's scrawl that no amount of detention could ever turn into an elegant, flowing script. Perhaps you'll nick the side of your hand with the knife? Maybe, right now, you're rinsing it under a tap - cold, of course - or sucking hard with your mouth to stem the flood of curses and blood? Even if you hadn't cut yourself, would you have lain the envelope on the solid oak table, simultaneously drawing a sharp breath that cuts not your hand but deep into your heart?

It's all questions, the answers to which I'll never be privy.

However, I can't ponder. There are things I need to get done, things I need to get written.

How I'm feeling, it's not something I can sweat out, cough up; it's innate, like the ability to suck air into lungs, to throw punches.

I think my mother saw it too. Like her, you'd always known it was there, buried somewhere beneath the brash - yet, brittle - skin of my personality. Once, a long time ago now, you'd said, "What, I wonder, is it? What is shrouded by that melancholic cloud?" Do you remember my reply? I do. The exact phrasing, the measure. What struck me was that my mother had said the same thing to me, as a child.

I was only nine. An insignificance, I thought, with my lazy eye, my cow's lick that made the hair on my head go punk, ten years too early. I didn't know that neither of you were reinforcing that notion. I'd been too young to understand. Even twenty years later I hadn't learned the lesson, I couldn't accept.

Of course, acceptance has never been my strong point. I've resolved to change that.

This letter is the beginning.

With love
S

The Memory

2006-06-16T09:45:00.000+01:00

The air around the meadow was sickly, as is the taste of chocolate frosting or the sentiments of old ladies. Flies hung in groups, their intimidation techniques more of an annoyance; bees bumbled from flower to flower. I was running across the field, through the knee-length grass that whipped around my shins, leaving thin red streaks where the blood had come to see who was knocking on the skin of my legs.

I’d been running away. So many years ago it had occurred, but it all felt as if it had happened yesterday. I hadn’t run for such a long time, it felt like a dream every time I recalled it. Now my legs, stained by blue lumps, mottled by scabs and scars, were useless.

I’d long ago ceased to tie my shoelaces, skipping the ritual and pulling on trainers when I left the house. Sometimes I simply left my feet to the elements or pulled thick socks over the twisted stumps of flesh I laughingly called toes. The same stumps that had propelled me through the strips of grass, past the yellow-headed dandelions, their manes of colour thick and stark against the greens; past the congregating flies, the blood-starved gnats and mosquitoes.

Sitting in front of the large mirror that sucked up a good proportion of wall space in the hallway, the back of the chair stabbing at the bruises from yesterday’s physiotherapy treatment, I noticed the changes in my face, how I’d grown into my features. Waves of dry skin lapped around a beach of neck; lips drooping to greet them at the shore; a bulbous nose that looks on in disdain of things beneath it. Dark spots litter my skin and hair sprouts from almost every orifice while simultaneously receding from the top of my head. It’s a face I would have been scared of, would have run from, back in the halcyon days of youth. It’s a face I cannot bear to look at now, one I am not familiar with despite having carried it around with me for almost 70 years.

It’s a face that remembers the meadow, the running, the breathlessness. It displays the marks of that day, cutting deeper than a surgeon’s scalpel, a robber’s knife. I wonder who else has seen these characteristics, these features I have carried since my youth. Perhaps, no one. They are my secret alone.

The day had begun with violent thunderstorms, rain fizzed on the tarmac and the thunder growled its way across the clouded, darkened sky, a malevolent roar that caused the birds to fall silent, animals to cower in fear. I was sat at my bedroom window, watching the cows in the field opposite sit under the shelter of the majestic oak trees that stood to attention along the left-hand side of the field. The trees shivered in the wind, trembling, like soldiers awaiting orders to march to the front lines. The streets were deserted, no one willing to risk a soaking, even though the air was hot and stifling; people had prayed for rain, willed it to come to break up the humid summer days that were becoming more familiar every year – my mother confessed that she harked back to the times when England seemed to be forever under a dark cloud, but I was unsure whether she meant the weather or any number of government ministers, including the current batch of incompetent fools.

The storm has passed quickly, leaving behind the smell of damp grass and a secondary pleasant odour, as if someone, somehow, had distilled the refreshing scents of summer. I wasted no time in jumping from my window sill perch and getting outside, failing to heed to call of my mother to “put on some boots and a coat in case it rains again”.

I headed straight for the meadow.

I strode through the wet grass, caring little as my trouser legs became sodden, heavy, cumbersome. Within minutes I had reached the largest tree in the wood, its circumference too much for my arms to reach around. I leaned back against its rough bark and rummaged through my pockets for my penknife. I liked to leave my mark, like a dog pisses against a bush every twenty feet or so. It was one of “the foibles”, as my mother liked to refer to it; upon catching me digging my knife into a wooden desk at school, the headmaster had refuted that definition, choosing instead to label me, vandal.

Soon, I tired of carving out my initials and walked on to the centre of the wood, where the trees encircled a patch of mossy grass. Laying back in the copse I could see the clouds scattered through blue sky, forever changing; occasionally the vision was enhanced by a swirl of birds or a drifting leaf spiralling towards the ground. I closed my eyes as the sun peeped over me, a golden, burning spy. I felt a shadow cross my face, imagined the clouds had returned. And then I felt another kind of heat, the type that comes with breath.

I opened my eyes quickly and saw a face above me. I startled and made to scream. A hand clamped around my mouth, its roughened, calloused skin impervious to the biting of my teeth. I struggled under the weight of the person, a blur in the periphery of my vision. A heard a voice, but not the words. All I wanted was freedom. At any cost.

It was only when the hand pressed against my face slackened that I remembered my penknife. Recalled that it was in my hand, had been grasped in my fist as I flailed beneath the stranger’s grip. I could feel the warm liquid running down my hand, tickling my elbow and pooling in the pit of my arm. I pulled it away and fought to find my footing as I attempted to stand, the circle of blue sky spinning above me.

A glance down, a body sprawled. The sun suddenly hot against my back, my shoulders. I felt the back of my throat constrict as I ran. I felt the sickness rise up, a sickly sweet taste, a tang of guilt, of fear. I ran for the meadow, for safety.

I ran and I didn’t stop until I got home.

Dog Day

2006-05-29T16:21:00.000+01:00

The children circled Ben, riding their bikes at all angles around him. Each time, when a kamikaze child appeared to be heading straight towards him, Ben changed direction. All about him were stumps of high-rise flats, washing flapping in the wind like an injured bird at the side of the road, like Ma Brewster's hands when she'd been caught shoplifting at the local supermarket. There were no escape routes and the children's laughter was mocking in its hilarity, the percussive coughs of an older boy puffing on a cigarette providing its back beat.

Ben went for a gap, but behind him, unseen, was a pair of boots, waiting for the precise moment when the target would be in range. Contact made, a squelch of flesh as the muscles compacted; bones cracking, one conceding completely, now a sharp stick poking incessantly at his side. Breath rasped. A small cough spattered the concrete path with blood.

Ben turned, teeth bared, ready for the fight that must surely now begin in earnest. The hunter and hunted could yet change places. Some boys backed away as Ben snarled, threatening to leap forwards at any moment; others came closer, moving in for the kill. Ben decided to make a last stand, launching himself at the smallest of boys and locking on to his wrist with his teeth. Howls, screams and shouts pierced the air.

The kicks rained down hard, but Ben kept on with his bite. He flinched at each kick, but slowly they were beginning to come to a stop. He let go, running for the larger gap that had opened up in the melée, a few final stragglers pushing their feet into his side, making the shard of bone stab at the skin of his Ben's chest. He dared a look over his shoulder as he ran, but there was no fight left now in the youngsters, bending as they were to tend to their own stricken and wounded. The young child was weeping, calling for his mother through waves of tears and snot. Adults had congregated now, shouting and pointing, many beginning to fumble with mobile phones to call the authorities. Ben kept running until he came to the small park at the edge of the housing estate.

Under a large oak tree Ben lay, breathing hard against the pain of his broken rib. He could taste the blood of the small boy on his tongue and throat, mixing with his own where he'd bitten his lip and coughed up the damage to his lung. He whimpered, wanting his own mother to be there; she was long gone, separated from him within weeks of his birth. It had only been a matter of time before he was abandoned again, left to roam the streets, to eat his meals from bins. That time was 16 years.

A long time passed before Ben felt strong enough to move. His side still hurt when he ran, but it was more of an irritation now. He limped along the road, popping sideways looks, just in case someone was looking for him or, worse still, the kids had regrouped. As he walked, the housing estate shrank in the distance. Ben began to feel hungry as he trotted along. He snuffled against bins, the front gardens of the houses surrounding him, but to no avail. He would have to starve tonight, he knew. It was like his sixth sense, his intuitive side that he'd learned after being on the streets so long. He no longer spoke to anyone, preferring to converse in howls, grunts and barks. He had discovered, often the hard way, that people didn't mind dogs raiding their bins, eating waste or shitting in their gardens; they couldn't handle it being a teenage boy. So, he had decided that the best way to stay alive was to behave like a common dog, a cur.

All had been fine, his disguise had lasted him a good six months, until that morning. Until they had set upon him like savages, calling him names, pissing on his back. They had chased him, throwing sticks at him, whatever they had to hand, until they had cornered him on the estate. He'd been lucky to get out alive. For the first time since he'd been kicked out of home, Ben was scared.

At every movement, every murmur from a window, a shop, Ben found himself jump in panic. He avoided the lights, avoided any contact with people. His rib itched where it pressed against his skin and he was finding it harder to breathe with each step. He wanted rest, to be left alone, to find some food; to be sheltered, part of a community, part of a family.

To be loved. That, more than anything else.

Sticks and Stones

2006-05-29T13:21:00.000+01:00

It began with the stones.

He'd been startled, thinking it was hailstones peppering the windows. Rising to look at the sudden change in the weather, he'd had to duck as a brick, its slow arc belying its velocity, sailed through the pane, showering him with a spray of glass; his face a scarlet mask from the cuts criss-crossing his now shock-white features.

Herded under the table, Donald and his cats, shielded from the downpour of stones, of rotting sticks of wood, of hatred. Mewling, all of them. Gouges, scratches and ruts marked the table-top, bore witness to Donald's horror, told the story from above, from a different perspective. Sods of wet earth clattered through the gaping holes in the windows and then, silence. Shortly after come shouts, laughter - a malevolent cackle, like static electricity, giving him a further shock; someone had purposely done this.

Someone was out to get him.

During the ensuing interview at the police station - where they barely listened to him - the Desk Sergeant nodded, scratched his head, ummed and ah-ed in the right places, but his disinterest was obvious. He scraped his pen across the paper, like a toddler doodling with a crayon, the words indistinguishable from each other. Donald Preston, that was the only word that he could make out clearly; it was a name the Desk Sergeant knew, for he'd written it down only weeks before, except then, he'd taken the time to write down his words carefully on the charge sheet.

Two hours later, Donald was back in his home, the windows covered with a hardboard skin - to protect from the elements, the glazing company had said. It had taken less than ten minutes after the glazing company's red van had turned the corner for the local youths to spray their tags, to add their feelings to those shared by his neighbours. They couldn't spell it properly, but to anyone with an ounce of phonetic skills it was clear:

Peedofile.

Paint brushes in hand, pots settled like dogs around his feet, Donald was outside staring hard at the word sprayed with what looked to be a delicate hand. Swift back and forth movements saw it covered with the whitewash. He knew that, come morning, the first shafts of sunlight would illuminate another version of the accusation, but still he ploughed on. Several times he thought about vandalising his own windows, painting his own venomous message in broad strokes, but instead got on with the job of wiping out the misspelled missive. This was the only way he could clear his name. Donald couldn't even raise a chuckle at the irony of his situation. He could barely raise the enthusiasm to continue, let alone any joy that may have been secreted in the depths of his body. Donald was broken.

Someone was out to get him.

It had begun with those stones, the shouts and cries; where would it end?

Stepping through over the tiled threshold, Donald was unprepared for the sight that greeted him. Pots thumped against the floor, a dull ring as they found contact with the antique tiles; brushes nipped at his feet, spilling tears of white over the hem of his left trouser leg, his shoes. What greeted Donald was a further shock to his fragile system.

They'd been the only things holding him together, they were his seams, his buttons and braces. There'd been no need, surely? What had his cats ever done? What kind of person would take a defenceless animal and commit such atrocities? Donald knew it was his neighbours, his neighbourhood. He pushed past the corpses of his cats, hanging by their tails, throats slit, notes pinned to each still-warm body threatening him, goading him.

Someone was out to get him.

By morning, the lifeless cats had attracted flies, maggots spilling onto the floor, squirming amongst the sticky mix of paint and blood. Footprints tainted the smooth surface of the liquids; a paintbrush, hardening slowly in the strip of sunlight that sneaked around the door frame, lay discarded, forgotten. An attempt had been made to break open the front door, but suddenly abandoned. The window panes created from the glazier's store of hardboard were blackened with soot, charred by small fires set at the corner of each frame that had failed to take once the initial fuel had been burned off. Further graffiti stained the brickwork. The area was silent, the birds' chirruping occasionally disturbing the air, punctuating the air every so often. There was no movement in the house and no one came investigating.

The stories had been told so often that no one could recall where it had started, how it had snowballed, got out of control; no one could remember who had cast that first stone. Mothers publicly scolded those that had been part of the witch hunt; privately spattering the memory of their neighbour with bitter remarks, unsubstantiated rumours and claims. It was always someone else's child, someone else's sick and twisted mind. It was safer that way. A mechanism, employed to cast shadows over the incidents. A way of pushing it back to the dark corners, those areas of the human mind that are sheltered by layers of cobwebs. Only one thing proved a common theme to each tale told, the single statement that could almost have been used as an epitaph:

Someone was out to get him.

Asking For Help

2006-05-23T15:36:00.000+01:00

The crowds of central London, slithering past me, hurrying in the wet as if they too flow: like the water from a burst pipe that is no more than two feet from me. I stand back, let them pass me by and then I am stranded, an ox-bow lake of skin and bone. It’s an effort not to howl.

I want to be candy, wrapped up; to be wanted, to elicit excitement, to crackle in the pocket, to jangle with the loose change. I want to be the warmth of chips held in newspaper, blackening fingers with the print; I want to be more than just the person standing here, sheltering from the downpour of tourists, homeless beggars, clipboard-clad kids and blue-rinse wielding grandmothers. There must be more to being alive than this.

Isn’t there?

Listen. I don’t want to shout above the cacophony of voices, cars, diesel engines, so come in close: I’m drowning in smog; I feel like I’m a wound that needs to be sutured. Can you understand? My life is flooding away from me, running down the streets, naked and vulnerable.

All I’m doing is asking for some help here.

Henry

2006-05-11T15:28:00.000+01:00

On the table there’s a coffee stain that won’t be rubbed away. It has attracted a modicum of dust, pinning it down to the table as if it were a photograph, a butterfly. Or a map to be pored over. When I leave the windows open it attracts the neighbourhood flies – possibly even some from out-of-town – and they suckle at the stain. I swat at them, open cupboards, pull out cloths and potions. Still it won’t be removed, no matter how hard I rub, what cleaning fluids I use. It always remains.

Idly, I stroke my cat, Henry. A ginger tom, I found him scavenging behind the bins at the back of our block of apartments. He followed me home and I didn’t have the heart to kick him out. I went around the local area, looking out for posters saying: LOST. GINGER. CAT. I saw none. That was over a year ago; we’re both too settled now that even if his ‘real’ owners knocked at my door Henry wouldn’t leave. I like to kid myself that this is the case.

Sometimes I wonder if Henry thinks the same as me. Sometimes.

Henry keeps the fly population down in the apartment. His paws a swat team. He casts me glances that suggest if I were to rid my table of the coffee stain then I would need to find another way to bring in the flies. When I stare at his eyes I list all the things that could bring in the flies, all those that he could be thinking about:

Left-over cat food

No changing his litter tray

Dragging the corpse of a dead animal – or person – into the apartment

Shitting in the corner.

I do none of these things, of course. Henry regards my failure with narrowed eyes and mewling mouth. He tastes me with his roughened tongue, sneezes, licks my skin again. It reminds me of when mother used to towel me dry after hauling me out of the bath. It reminds me of the days when I was carefree, young, innocent. It seems so long ago now.

I’m too tired to rub at the stain anymore. It’ll still be there tomorrow, attracting more dust, attracting more flies, attracting Henry.

The Visitor

2006-05-06T12:40:00.000+01:00

There was a sharp knock at the door. Julie jumped. She placed her cup carefully on the coaster - sat in the middle of the coffee table, in amongst the magazines and torn envelopes - and strode towards the door.

Usually, she would check the spy hole, but a second knock caused her to forget her security procedures. London was not the place the media made it out to be. It was safe, she thought. It was safe.

Luckily, the chain was still on from the night before. This gave Julie time to react as the first blow from an unseen assailant's shoulder crashed against the door. The shock had caused Julie to stumble back, catching the back of her legs on the coffee table. She fell, hard. Her cup sloshed coffee over the papers on the table. It would stain, but that would be the least of her problems.

The door didn't last long, wood splinters cascaded across the polished floor of the apartment.

It was safe, London, that was Julie's mantra as a shadow fell across the room. She had no time to scream before a hand pressed across her mouth.

When she woke two hours later, Ray had his arm curled around her midriff. She moved away from him, rubbing at her wrists where the ropes had cut a little too deep. She liked this fantasy. Playing it out again and again never bored her and Ray was always up for the brutal decadence of the scenario. He had never once said no to her requests.

She looked back at him sprawled on the bed, the covers just keeping him decent. She smiled, remembering the first time she had picked him up in the bar down town. He had always been pliant. For her. Julie wondered if he had always been this way or if the show was for her alone. She mused on the point as she moved to make tea.

The kitchen was its usual mess of dirty cups, plates overflowing with tea bags, mouldy food. The sink had long disappeared beneath the grime of city living. Julie never threw anything away. Julie never cleaned. She found a cup, flicked on the kettle and wiped away the green scum around the cup's lip with a tissue. Some remained, but she took no notice. As long as nothing was floating, Julie would drink from anything. Ray didn't seem to mind. Julie certainly didn't.

She heard him stir in his sleep, peeped her head around the door frame to see if he wanted a coffee. But he was still fast asleep, a faint wheeze audible as his breath left his body, just before his lungs sucked up another gulp of air. For once, she let him sleep.

Awaiting the Return

2006-04-18T16:16:00.000+01:00

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, stared out the steamy windows of the café at the milling crowds. Clouds spiralled, letting through small stems of sunlight to touch lucky individuals. Her coffee sat on the steel table-top untouched. A paperback book, its cover pushed back behind the spine, lay next to it. This, too, remained untouched. Louise watched, awaiting the return of Brian.

They'd been married; they still were, albeit only on paper. They hadn't lived together for over a year now, not since Louise had left. He was stoic: that peculiar stiff upper lip the British man was so fond of could easily be Brian's dictionary definition. Louise was more reflective. She was fond of telling people - anyone who would listen to her without yawning - that she was a car, Brian the hub cap. They'd become separated, Brian spinning off in ever decreasing circles, settling, finally, atop the verge. She had continued on her journey, even though many of their shared friends always felt she wasn't quite 'whole'. On this occasion, Louise had replaced the hub cap. Somewhere, Brian was lying at the side of the road, undiscovered.

She thought about Brian, about what had gone before, what had happened since. At times she felt like a stranger. She recalled their first time together in bed; the details were blurry now but one particular event stuck fast in the mud of her memories: Brian pushing the splayed fingers of his gnarled hand through the silky strands of her auburn hair; she'd yet to tell him that it was out of a bottle despite their twelve years' of marriage. She hadn't known that Brian had never had the heart to tell her that he'd discovered her secret - she hid the bottle and discarded packages behind the bath panel - within three weeks of their relationship moving from coy, stolen looks across the college cafeteria to full penetration.

A single thought struck her now, as she sat on her non-descript metal chair in the small café: no-one counts their fingers or toes - it's accepted that they have the correct number of digits, just as it's accepted that a man of a certain age will stray, will renew his interest in fucking. Not sex; not lovemaking; not pleasure: release. Had it been that way, Louise could have understood, accepted. But, she had strayed, become the predator. Her interest had not been renewed, though - it had been uncovered. At the time, what had made her relish the feeling was the knowledge that it had been Brian who had squirreled her passion away, like a dark family secret.

Louise wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, stared out through the mist of her tears. She lifted her cup, drank the cold coffee in one gulp, gathered up her book and stuffed it into a leather bag with the broken zip. The chair scraped against the floor as she stood up; heads turned for a second to look up at the distracting noise, as if the café's customers were suddenly acutely aware that they were sharing space with other people. Louise didn't return the gazes. She left the premises, leaving the door slightly ajar. Several people tutted as a chill wind whipped in through the gap; one woman went to shut it, but was prevented from doing so by a middle-aged man who was stepping over the threshold. He wore a name badge.

It said Brian in a neatly spaced white font.

I've been tagged once more

2006-04-18T12:19:00.000+01:00

Ian lay in the long grass, his eyes scanning the battlefield spread out below. He let his breath become shallow, so as not to attract the attention of the his family's enemies, the marauding armies that had stained the earth with the blood of Ian's relatives.

But, it was too late. He felt his shirt seized by a strong hand, hauling him to his feet in one swift movement.

"Come with me." That's all the voice said, preferring to remain silent as it's owner frogmarched Ian towards the battle tents. Once inside the cool atmosphere of the main tent, Ian was seated at a desk, a piece of paper in front of him. A pen was thrust into his hand, the paper turned over.

"We need to know everything about you, so that you and your family may be crushed by our forces," the mysterious voice instructed. Even though it would bring about his demise, Ian didn't hesitate in answering the questions laid out before him.

Accent?
I have a combination of British accents, ranging from the South London twang to the Dorset farmer. These have come about through living in a variety of UK regions over the past 33 years.

Booze of choice?
Asahi beer.

Chore I hate?
Vacuuming, that's why I employ a cleaner.

Dog or Cat?
Cat. Dogs require walking and I'm inherently lazy.

Essential Electronics?
Lights. Everything else I could learn to live without.

Favourite perfume/cologne?
Anything by Jean Paul Gaultier.

Gold or Silver?
White Gold (that's what my wedding ring is made of). If it wasn't so expensive, it would have been platinum. It's the only jewellery I wear.

Hometown?
Albury, Surrey.

Insomnia?
I used to dabble in sleep deprivation techniques and other mad things like that. Since I gave up (read: got a proper job) I have managed to sleep for at least 5 hours a night, although I'd prefer to sleep for 10.

Job Title?
Creative copywriter

Kids?
None.

Living Arrangement?
Married (recently). Live in two-bedroom house with wife and cat.

Most Admired Trait?
The ability to know someone for almost every possible need. Also, people love that I can spark conversation with anyone, whether I know them or not.

Number of Sexual Partners?
Just one now, but I've had about 14 in total.

Overnight Hospital Stays?
None since I was seven. I used to spend quite a bit of time in hospital to correct eye problems.

Phobia?
Not being liked.

Quote?
Anything by Oscar Wilde.

Religion?
It's the root of all evil. I try to live my life in the way that upsets as few people as possible.

Siblings?
Older brother.

Time I wake up?
Without fail, I always wake up 5 hours after I went to sleep, regardless of what time that was. This morning that meant 5am. I didn't get out of bed until 7am.

Unusual talent/skill?
None I know of.

Vegetable I refuse to eat?
I'm a vegetarian, but I still hate courgettes and marrows.

Worst Habit?
Marijuana.

X-rays?
None. Never. Ever.

Yummy foods I make?
As a trained baker and chef I can create anything. However, my bread has won international prizes, so I guess that would be it.

Zodiac sign?
Capricorn.

As soon as Ian finished writing a knife was pressed to his throat.

His shallow grave was never discovered.

Life Rears Up Like A Frightened Horse

2006-03-21T14:59:00.000Z

These are some poems from one of my collections. I present these for you:

Sometimes You Look So Beautiful

it scares me
hounds me in my
night robes of conscience
impregnates my thoughts
contorts the reality.

sometimes you look so beautiful
it pleases me
but still that scare
is on the loose
slipped the noose
hanging from the tallest
spire of inside

ALWAYS YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL
always I am scared.

Crowd Pleaser

I walk cobbled stones and
broken backs of paving slabs.

Feet scuff the concrete
catch heels
tumble.

I attempt to appear nonchalant
but my fluster stands bold
like mosquito bites.

I await the applause.

People walk on by
the crumpled flesh on the floor.

I abhor the sensitivity of robots: if you won't clap at least concern.

Under The Thumb

THEY say
when YOU die
the soul drifts into another world
where no PAIN exists;
no WAR is undertaken;
no CRIME is ever committed.

The Lonely Walk

the road
a conveyor belt travelling backwards
faster than I am walking forwards
car drivers sound their horns pass on by the lonely walker.

the sun beats down
on sweating face
necklace beating against chest
in time with feet
body leaching fluid: too much for t-shirt to drink

road just winds on
in the distance
conveyor belt
feeding faster
the lonely walk
is far from over
the agony of it all just weighs down the besieged.

Rising To The Bottom

Sitting.
Drinking tea with talk-show hosts:
Nutrasweet smiles
watching their weight.
Shaving around glossy moustaches.
Dripping with gold, jewels and bimbos.
Sloshing a Scotch
in the drink
with a chink: the ice,
no slice.

I feel out of place
and wonder how I managed to arrive
from dingy to sickly-
sweet the personality,
sickening the life-
styled out of fashion.

But who cares when
everybody is living
in the medieval torture
of the 21st Century?

I Pretend I Am Dreaming

2006-03-21T14:57:00.000Z

faces staring
blank
at blank face
with smile
that don't
exist/
i pretend I am dreaming/
i pretend I am dreaming/
i pretend/
it's all a charade/
it's all a pain in my chest/
the mundane tears
playing cards
choosing names
making jokes
no one laughs anymore/
no one laughs when you're a piece
from a different jigsaw/
you don't remember
now you are happy
i can't forget
i feel the cancer spread/
i'm losing weight/
fainting/
pale/
today i counted seven ribs
holding my grief/
tomorrow?
i think i'll shave... in the early morning
just to get around
the words others speak/
hunched on the floor
i'm just a bore
for everyone to ignore
or ridicule/
i lose my temper
when i shouldn't/
it's time to move
but bed is like a
grave i use at night/
i pretend i am dreaming...

Tagged, once again

2006-03-21T12:55:00.000Z

I've been tagged by Raynwomaan and this story is my fifteen things you didn’t know about my sex life (hey, I don't set the questions). So, for once, this is not (quite) fiction.

The Prime Minister looked over the pieces of paper scattered haphazardly over his leather-bound desk and groaned. One day in the job and this is what it came down to: pushing paper. He wasn't making the major decision he thought he would be nor was he meeting with the leaders of the world, people he'd aspired to meet since he'd first took an interest in politics aged 14. All he was doing was pushing paper.

Oh well, he thought, I might as well make a start. He pulled up the first piece within reach and started to read it. After a second or two, he started to read it again from the beginning. This wasn't the usual ministerial rubbish about budgets and warfare or the proletariat uprising that was (forever) imminent in the country. This was something completely different; personal - in actual fact it was extremely person as it dealt with the Prime Minister's sexual activity.

"It can't hurt to fill it in," he said out loud, plucking a gold pen from the inside pocket of his hand-stitched wool jacket.

It hadn't taken long for the Prime Minister to fill in the questionnaire. He felt good, something had been achieved. The first day in the job and he had already answered questions about being on the job. It wasn't quite what the public thought he should be doing, but if that Cluntin could get his dick sucked in the Round Office then he, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, could take time out to do some light-hearted questionnaire.

As he sat back and reflected on his success (albeit on something he would not want broadcast to the nation) a knock came at the door. He called out and the door opened. A flunky - the Prime Minister tried in vain to recall his name - pushed through the door and took a sharp intake of breath.

"Why, Prime Minister, what are you doing amongst all that paperwork? No, no, no, this simply won't do!" he exclaimed.

"What do you mean?" asked the Prime Minister. "Don't I do paperwork?"

"Of course not!" The flunky was almost incredulous in his tone. "You sign things, sir, meet world leaders, etc, etc. You have a huge team of civil servants that'll take care of all this," he indicated with a sweep of his hand.

"Oh," said the Prime Minister, crestfallen. Suddenly, his minor achievement seemed immaterial.

The flinky gathered up the papers and stuffed them into a folder, which he then held between his arm and body. The Prime Minister almost expected him to salute, but he didn't. Instead, he simply turned on his heel and was out the door.

Several seconds passed until the Prime Minister realised his questionnaire was amongst the papers now stuffed into a folder, carried under the arm of a flunky who's name he didn't know.

-–---–-–-–-–-–-–-–-–

The next morning, it soon became clear that he'd been set up. The questionnaire had been planted, specifically to give the Daily Snail a scoop. They printed up his answers in bold. He groaned again. Prime Minister's questions would be Hell personified. They would ridicule him endlessly. He'd never live it down.

The telephone rang. Another groan was emitted from the Prime Minister's mouth. He didn't really want to answer it, but he couldn't hide away, take a day off. No duvet days for world leaders. A tinge of regret passed over his mind, but the ringing phone brought him back to reality.

"Hello?"
"Prime Minister, this is the Queen. I must say, I read your interview twice. I'm most impressed by your candid nature. I never liked the God-loving one; he also had a fondness for war and idiots with plans to take over the world. I much prefer you. Toodle-pip."

Before he could say anything else, the Queen had hung up. Cradling the phone in his hand, the Prime Minister sat back in his chair and glowed. Now, he welcomed Prime Minister's questions.

Lifting the Daily Snail off his desk, he read through the Q&A session once more, a satisfied look on his face.

-–---–-–-–-–-–-–-–-–

Q&A with the Prime Minister

Q1
How old were you when you lost your virginity? Who was it to? Describe the event.

I was 14 and it was to the daughter of the man I worked for at weekends for extra money. It was a disaster, as these things generally are. Second time was better if not longer.

Q2
What is the strangest place you've had sex?
In a woodland, on a pathway. I was 18 years old at the time.

Q3
Who would you consider 'switching teams' for?
As a Prime Minister, do you think I'd switch teams? Of course, back in the old school days...

Q4
Do you prefer to give or receive?
Give, as long as I get to receive sooner rather than later.

Q5
One night stands - what the protocol? Stay the night or get the Hell outta there?
Never had one. Really.

Q6
Favourite body part/parts of the opposite sex?
Eyes. That alone can make the difference. Not what they look like but what they show.

Q7
Quickie or long and slow?
Depends on a number of variables that I can't go in to here. Suffice to say, whichever is most suited to the time and place.

Q8
Noisy or quiet?
Quiet.

Q9
Ideal amount of sex per week?
At least three times. Preferably more, definitely not less. Right now in my life that is. Ask me again when I'm eighty - do they ask an ex-PM about sex?

Q10
What's your number one sexual turn-off?
Selfishness.

Q11
Number one arousal trigger
That 'look' - you all know the one I mean!

Q12
What constitutes bad sex?
Any that requires cash payment.

Q13
Celebrity you'd most like to shag right now?
None - I don't love any of them.

Q14
Define sexy?
Well, it's not George Bush in spandex, let me tell you! I suggest you try a dictionary.

Q15
Remember the best sex you've had - what made it special?
Knowing I'd never forget it.

Case Solved

2006-03-14T16:22:00.000Z

"All I can hear is oohs and aahs, Unc."

"That's coz they're fucking each other, you stupid twat. That's why we're 'ere. We need evidence, don't we? Sometimes I wonder what the fuck it is that you're doing 'ere. Gimme those headphones. Muppet.

Julian duly handed over the headphones, his bottom lip quivering slightly. He didn't like upsetting his Uncle Freddie this much, but he hated it when he shouted at him. He hated being cooped up in the back of a van even less, unfortunately it was all part of the job: private detective.

Uncle Freddie was listening intently; Julian wondered what he could be listening to, as all he'd heard was the grunts of what Uncle Freddie termed as 'dirty sex'. The thought made Julian's cock harden with blood. He sat down to disguise it, praying it would go away. Julian didn't know a lot about sex. What he did know was that he wanted to try it.

"Ssssssshhhhhhhhhh!" Uncle Freddie loved to make that sound, even if there was no noise whatsoever. "Right, get the fucking camera, they're oblivious to anyfing and we needs the shots. C'mon, you fucking twat. NOW!"

Julian jumped, his head connected with the metal roof of the van, sending out a dull clang. He was about to let out a cuss, but Julian bit his tongue as he recalled the last time he'd sworn in Uncle Freddie's company. His eye had been swollen for a week. He twisted about, looking everywhere for the camera. He spied it under the front seat and reached forward to collect it. Uncle Freddie was tutting and shaking his head. Julian grabbed the camera as Uncle Freddie swung open the rear door of the van and helpfully pushed him out into the night.

Ladder's on the fucking roof," Uncle Freddie said as he slammed the door shut.

Julian pulled the ladder down, trying hard to make as little sound as possible. The door to the van opened again.

"Don't fergit to take the fucking cap off the lens, awright?" And then Uncle Freddie was gone again.

Julian began to move off towards the imposing Victorian house in front of him. As he moved away he could hear Uncle Freddie talking to himself, a squelching sound of wet flesh coming from the van. Julian didn't really want to take the photos, but he knew from experience that interrupting Uncle Freddie while he was "taking notes" in the van was a bad thing to do. His eye had taken two weeks and he'd needed stitches in his lips. Uncle Freddie had also warned him not to mention that his trousers had fallen down, else Julian might find he went to hospital for a lot longer.

He struggled across the lawn, the ladder in one hand and the camera slung over his shoulder. It was moonlight and it cast a silver sheen across the landscaped gardens. There were many shadows across the front of the house and Julian moved towards them. He placed the ladder against the house and carefully increased its length until it sat just beneath the window sill. Julian tested his weight on the bottom rung.

Confident that the ladder would take his weight, Julian began to climb. His palms sweated as he climbed. Would he get to see real sex? Would he see a naked woman, breasts and everything? Julian hoped so. He wished that Uncle Freddie would let him get them developed, then he could look at the photos before he handed them over. He might even be able to steal one, although Uncle Freddie would probably go ballistic and kill Julian. He'd get copies made instead.

As he climbed up, Julian noticed that the window was open a fraction. He could hear the moans of pleasure clearly as he made his way up the ladder. His palms got really sweaty and he had to stop to dry them on his jeans. Wow, he thought, no one will believe this at school. His hands were shaking as he pulled the lens cap off the camera. It was already set, ready to shoot; so was Julian.

He was crouching close to the top of the ladder, poised. Using his legs, he pushed himself over the window sill and looked through the viewfinder. Julian was transfixed for a number of seconds. He could see a man and a woman on a bed. He was on top. They seemed to be hurting each other. Julian wasn't sure what was happening - it certainly didn't look nice to him. His eyes glazed over a little as the woman moved her arm and he saw her breast clearly, her nipple glistening with the man's spit. Oh my God, Julian said to himself, this is my dream come true.

He took the camera and began to take photos of the couple. Even though he hadn't liked what he'd seen, Julian found himself excited by the images he was shooting. A thought flashed through his head: now I know what Uncle Freddie is doing! He smiled, taking some last shots before deciding he'd had enough.

Just as he was putting the lens cover back on, the woman turned her head towards Julian. She saw him and screamed. Julian looked up, straight into the face of the couple.

"Fucking Hell, it's Aunt Gloria," he said

Julian heard the thump from the van as the roof connected with Uncle Freddie's head.

Beginnings

2006-03-14T14:11:00.000Z

Adam and I lay on our backs in the long grass behind the farm sheds. It's hot, summer has come at last after the seemingly never-ending April rains and we're taking advantage of it. The morning has been spent running around, chasing the chickens and geese, until father shouted at us, threatening to put us to work turning manure. We'd careered around some more, meandering our way back to the farmhouse for refreshments; greeted by mother, scolding the grass stains on our knees and trying her level best to keep us in the cool of the kitchen so we could help her with chores. Gulping lemonade and throwing water on our red faces we retreated as fast as we could back out into the sun. We'd been too exhausted to keep running and had flopped down in the shady grass.

I point out a dog shape in the clouds and we spend another hour making as many shapes out of the clouds as we can. It's one of our favourite games. We also like hide and seek or climbing the hay bales. Father counsels us not to climb there, as he knows of deaths past where children have been caught in an avalanche of hay; at best limbs get broken, disabilities inflicted. We ignore him, of course. Adam says we'd never be stupid enough to get caught dying in a hay bale storm. Even so, I haven't actually been out to the barn this year. Neither has Adam. Coincidence.

Adam is my cousin. He's a little older than me, but only by two years. He's just left school, no qualifications. Doesn't need any to take over his father's business, he says. We've played on our farm since we were small (knee-high to a grasshopper, as Uncle Derek says). Adam is probably one of my best friends. I trust him. I glance a sideways look as Adam points out yet another shape in the sky. I see his arm pressed against his head, his profile half in shadow. I see the slight crookedness to his nose, the fullness of his lips and the indentation in his chin from the time he fell against the stone steps aged five. His scars give him gravitas, in my eyes. (I learned the word, gravitas, in Ms Gearson's English class yesterday and I've wanted to use it since then.)

A fly settles on the end of his nose and he flicks at it with his left hand, brushing against my hip as he does so. I feel a tingle through my skin, my breath shallow. The fly passes off to bother something else. I shade my eyes from the sun and look carefully at Adam. His chest rises and falls as he speaks, as each breath provides the life before me. I see the tanned skin of his chest; a few blond hairs dot the landscape down to his sternum, a further light fuzz disappearing under his shirt. I lick my lips, mouth suddenly dry.

Adam looks up at me, his face a question. I look away, feel myself blush. The quizzical look remains on Adam's face. I shove him and jump to my feet, giggles emitting from my throat. He lies back but I am ready to run, ready to be chased. I want Adam to chase me, to grapple with me, pin me to the ground. I want his sturdy legs to constrict, in a pincer movement; I want his hands to grasp my wrists and push them above my head. I want to be blinded by the sun and have his face provide some shade. I want to feel his lips graze against mine.

But he doesn't move. Adam continues to lay there, still. His breathing calm now. I realise he's asleep. I collapse next to him, lay my head on his chest and curl up with his arm across me. I wonder what shape we make for the birds to look down upon as I drift into unconsciousness.

Park

2006-03-14T11:59:00.000Z

I watched Katherine swing back and forth in the park, Michael's strong arms making her fly higher with each push, her shriek causing the birds to rise as a flock, a black cloud of wings. A warm feeling passed through my body, a consequence of the love I felt for them both: my husband and my baby.

I pulled the scarf tighter around my neck to stop the winter wind chilling my chest, the hat already slumped on my head like an insolent child on a chair in a dentist's reception area. The snow had melted and the sun was reaching its arms to the ground, but the bare limbs of the trees made it clear that Spring was still a distant mirage. Katherine shrieked again as the swing's chains went momentarily slack - her body weight pulling it back down to earth. Stop, she said. Michael let the swing slow. He waved at me. I returned his wave.

There were other children on the roundabout - the merry-go-round as we used to call in. Years ago, I played here. The swings were different, there were no locks on the gates; dog shit was everywhere, we watched our step; now bins are scattered about, signs implore dog owners to clear up mess these pets make. The park is populated by people carrying plastic bags and pulling faces as they bend forward, walking towards bins with arms held away from the body, hands waving in front of noses or fingers holding nostrils closed.

Of course, the trees are bigger, higher - some fell in the great storms of '87 and there are gaps now in the perimeter. Little else has changed over the past 15 years. Goal posts have been erected, wood chips placed under the children's swings and the dismantling of the climbing frame. Not much else.

I watch Katherine climb steps, sit down at the top of the slide. I see Michael at the end of the slide, waiting to catch her. Katherine's skirt billows as she begins her descent. She shrieks again and the birds lift off and answer her squawk. She is having fun, even in the cold. I like to see her happy. I know she'll be sad one day.

One day, when Mummy isn't here.

Michael tells me not to be morbid, not to think about after the event. I can't. It's all I can think about. Should we tell her, should we wait until the inevitable happens? This is what amounts for our time together: discussions about burial, about wills, about epitaphs, about hymns.

I answer: I want to be cremated, my ashes scattered in the park, this park. I don't want epitaphs, I don't want hymns. I don't want a solemn occasion. It's not me. It's not fair on those that are left. Michael sighs. I can sense the tears almost cresting his lower lids. I know he thinks it's selfish, but I didn't ask for this to happen.

He'll leave me alone on the subject for a day or two and then the questions start again.

I watch Katherine as she mounts the slide for one more go. Michael turns and waves. I return his wave. I hope he can't see me crying from where he stands. I don't want him to see me crying.

The Book

2006-03-14T11:57:00.000Z

Jeremy spotted Myra approaching him. He spied her through the gap in the books. He was in the Metal work section; not many other people went there, it was quiet and Jerermy knew he could remain undisturbed for hours should he want to spend time on his own. He could hide and no one would know where he was. He quickly scanned the shelves, but his eye did not fall on the spine he needed to locate. It was here somewhere, he'd read about it. He estimated that he had about ten seconds before Myra was with him.

He looked up. There was no way he could mistake her awkward gait for anyone else, the churning of her upper body as spindly legs struggled to keep her considerable frame upright while in motion. Her jaundiced skin - a result of spending too much time in the basement sorting index cards for the library's Dewey system - glowed buttercup yellow under the sodium lamps; the way it ebbed and flowed as she walked was almost hypnotic. Jeremy wondered what would happen if the curtain material holding all that flesh in were unleashed. A feeling of sickness washed over Jeremy. He gagged, Myra almost upon him.

"Are you taking any books out?" She spoke the question accompanied by a volley of spittle.

Jeremy reached into his inside pocket and immediately his hand felt the handle of the knife brush his fingers. In one swift movement he had it out and was maniacally stabbing Myra in the chest. Blood spurted everywhere; her last words a gurgle as the life drained out of Myra and spread across the carpet tiles, lapping against Jeremy's shoes.

"I'm just looking," Jeremy said, his eyes on his shoes. "I'm looking for something specific." He brought his gaze up to look straight into Myra's eyes. In his head he was wiping clean an imaginary blade.

Myra wrinkled her nose at him, as if she could detect a smell that brought about thoughts of voiding bowels.

"Well, we can't house people all day, you've been here for three hours - not to mention the fact that this is the tenth day in a row that you've been here and not taken a book out. Other people want to read these books, too. Perhaps I can help?"

Jeremy stuttered. The book in his hands felt heavy. He'd never been in a library before where visitors were questioned as to the reasons they were there. It wasn't as if he was reading the papers for free, like most of the old people in the area - especially the ones that had already been banned from the newsagents. Myra just continued to glare at him.

"I'm leaving now," Jeremy mumbled. He handed Myra the book and pushed past her, picking up the pace as he got closer to the door.

Once outside, Jeremy cursed himself for his failure to complete the task he'd set out to do that morning. He could see Myra pushing her cart around the library, picking up books from the table where people had discarded them and replacing them on the correct place on the shelves. He had to get back in there, had to find the one book he wanted. The only problem was Myra. She was a big problem.

The next day Jeremy was back, shuffling around the shelves. It was dark in the library, the lights were off at such an early hour. Jeremy had snuck back in as they were closing last night, hidden himself amongst the farthest shelves and waited. He'd spent all night searching, but still he hadn't found anything. Admittedly, he'd spent an inordinate amount of time in the biology section reading about reproduction, tissue at the ready. His thoughts kept moving to Myra and he lost the urge to masturbate. He'd even failed at man's most basic instinct - could it get any worse?

A glance at his watch told Jeremy he only had an hour left until Myra came in for work. At that time he'd have to secrete himself somewhere, perhaps in the reference library. Later he could come out and pretend to have only just come in. He needed that book. His job was on the line without it. There was just one row left and then he'd know that every shelf had been checked.

At that precise moment, Jeremy's eyes settled on the exact book he wanted.

"Yessssssss," he let out with a hiss. "Just what I was looking for."

He danced a jig of glee, like a child that's just been told they can have whatever they want in the sweet shop. With light steps Jeremy hunkered down in the remote corner, book open in his hands and a demented smile on his face. Myra will be surprised, he thought to himself. Oh yes should would.

Provoking Thought

2006-03-08T16:17:00.000Z

When you're old
and I'm swinging on the angel's star

I'll come back and kiss you.

Love's Blind

2006-03-06T16:22:00.000Z

Good morning, Roni. How are you today?

I don't know where I am. I can't see anything around me.

And why is that, Roni?

I'm blind.

What can you tell me about how you came to lose your sight? What memories do you have?

Been like that since I was five years old. Weed killer and eyes don't mix. And, I've also learned the hard way that bleach is not the best thing to wash them out with should you find yourself with weed killer in your eyes. At five years old, maybe you'd be like me and reach for the nearest clear liquid. Perhaps you wouldn't have allowed your older sister to pour weed killer in your eyes in the first place.

How do you feel about your sister? Can you describe how she makes you feel? In your own words and your own time, please

I adored her, my sister. I can literally say I would have done anything for her. I live with that every day. Yet, I have no regrets.

Thank you, Roni. That concludes our session for today.

––––––––––––

I know where I find myself isn't very big in terms of space. I'm enclosed by four walls, brick, rough. Gouges littering the surfaces of those walls; names, dates, simple messages and many downward strokes to count time passed. It feels like a prison. I don't know if it is. I can't see anything around me. I'm blind.

If I am in prison, it'll be because of Veronica. Roni, she liked being called. Spelled it just like that: RONI. In Braille, that's

It was the first word I learned in Braille after I lost my sight. I would've done anything for Roni, whatever she'd ask of me. Every time. It must have driven our parents out of their minds. Roni often said they were "losing it", which would always make me giggle.

I run my fingers over the scars around my eyes and sniff in the stale air. A strange odour. A scent that can't be described in terms of perfumes, but more likely described with stench/sewer/faeces/shit/rank/corrosive. Ammonia. Somewhere in this room is an open toilet. It most likely doesn't have a flush. I can judge all that with my nose. It's highly tuned now. There are other smells, mingling like cocktail party crowds. Sweat, blood, a hint of oranges. I can pick up the aroma of chicken roasting. Perhaps it's on the lunch menu.

This smell makes me hungry. I try to remember when I last ate something. Roni would've made me a sandwich last night before bed. I couldn't sleep without leaving something out to eat during the night. It would've been peanut butter and raspberry jam on brown bread. No butter. I like my bread dry.

I step sideways and my shins connect with a metal rod. I suck in my breath, hold it until the pain subsides. I reach down, fumbling. My hands touch cloth. Denim. Heavyweight. I don't know what colour they are, but they smell of the sweat and blood. There is wetness on them. Bringing my finger to my nose I can ascertain it's blood. Definitely. I know that smell. Memories flood my head. Blood. Definitely blood.

I can smell chicken being roasted and wonder if that's what we're eating for lunch. Perhaps it's on the menu.

I scratch Roni's name on the wall, in Braille. All in lower case.

The blood on my hands makes the pen slip as I try to dig it into the plaster. Dust. The wall is crumbling. I don't think anyone will be able to read Braille anyway, so I don't worry that it probably looks messy. That's the way the cookie crumbles.

I know it's there.

I stop; cock my head to one side. I hear footsteps; they are not close but I feel the vibrations of the floor and I can hear the slap of leather on polished tile. Are they coming for me, I wonder? I move back to the metal shelf and reach down again. I find a blanket, it is dry. I think it's a bed. There is a body lying on the bed, the shelf. It doesn't move. The smell of blood and sweat is strong. I recall things now.

I am in prison. Of course I am. Clarity.

The day is clear to me. The lounge of the house was immaculate; I was sitting on the settee, watching television and eating biscuits, with Roni. I could hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner, the drone and whine. Mother, ever the cleaner. Roni was passing me the biscuits, each cleanly snapped in half so I was able to dunk them in my tea. I liked it. Sometimes I wouldn't drink the tea – I'd simply make a cup so I could submerge my favourite biscuits into the hot liquid and feel the soggy remnants of a biscuit melt over my tongue.

I had no idea, not until Mother came in and shouted. Crumbs, everywhere. Roni whispered into my ear, pressed the poker from the fire in my hand. She spoke to me, told me I must do it. I heard the vacuum come closer, its hum and whine drilling into my skull. I can remember the smell of blood from that day. Roni said I'd done well. She said I'd made her proud.

I'm in a prison. I've scratched Roni's name on the wall. I can smell chicken being roasted, perhaps that will be served for lunch. Roni says that I can have two helpings if I want and there will be gravy. Roni tells me everything.

I can hear the footsteps closer now. A faint squeak as the heel pronates on each step. I don't have long, they are coming for me. Roni tells me. I must hide the evidence, she says.

I move to the shelf, the bed. I reach down and feel the blanket. Pulling hard I am able to release it from underneath the body. I grab corners, throwing it up and forward, just like Roni says to. I let it drift over the corpse and stand so that it cannot be easily seen from the door. I start to sweat. I run my fingers over the scars around my eyes.

The footsteps stop outside my door. Keys inserted; the scrape of metal on metal. Clunk it turns.

Yes, Roni, I'm glad I've made you proud again. I've scratched your name on the wall, in Braille.

It looks like this:

Change: A Monologue

2006-03-06T12:12:00.002Z

Hi blog visitor,
This is perhaps the most requested page on my site. Which is great.

However, I've noticed some of the words being used by other people. A lot. So the post has now been removed. There was a time when I let it go out to people, but the requests are now too much.

Anyway, to give you an idea of what was here, I'll post the intro...

Why not finish off the story yourself?

[See the young girl holding a sign. It reads: Homeless, hungry, but human.]

Spare some change, please? For a cup of tea? To redecorate my living room?

Of course, I live on the streets. I don't have a room to live in. I don't live: I survive. My name's Mary, not that I expect you to remember. Mary Mary, quite contrary. Yeah, right. I never liked nursery rhymes, don't teach you nothing about life and you can't eat them. My Dad reckoned you could teach kids better things, like the back of a hand. Why? Beats me. Ha-fucking-ha.

That's why I came to London, about three years ago now; bunked the fare on the train; came looking for adventure. I certainly got what I wanted - an adventure.

Of course, I see you pass by all the time. Like most, you fumble in your pocket for coins, find only paper. I recognise faces, see. To you, I probably look like all the others, indistinguishable from the rest of the faces caked with the shit of the city. Do you think I'm a - what's the word? - dosser? Or beggar? A professional one, not a scrounger. I ain't got kids, you can't label me a scrounger.

I'm sort of in-between jobs.

[to read more, please contact me at the email address on my profile. Thanks]

Excerpts

2006-03-06T10:38:00.000Z

These pomes are from a collection called 'The Ramblings of a Long-hand Typist'.

The theme of this collection was loneliness and impending death. They are old, circa 1997. I think.

Don't It Just Get You Down?

The son-of-a-bitch screamed at me from behind the glass counter.

"Hey, Gypsy. You gonna pay for
that or just look at it like you don't
know what to do with it?"

I placed the toilet roll back down on the dusty shelf
and headed for the exit.

No one needs a shit that bad.

Least of all, me.

If You Sit In A Room Too Long You Begin To Consume Yourself

from the inside out/
start at the bottom
work up/

most butts
are better public
speakers because
the mouth has learned
to lie/

scratch your head
or
pick your nose/
wipe your skin
with
fresh but dirty clothes/

release me
release me
parole/

I have paid my dues
chewed the news and
spit out views/

you don't understand
how long the room has
enclosed
supposed?

not enough/

Feels like a coffin
a coughing/
choking
splutter

a gutter
from which I
can't be pulled/

my legs have gone
consumed from the
inside out

fake a smile/
and pray:

that makes it all purposeful/

purpose: fool.

--

Away

As the sun
washes the horizon

as the ground
succumbs to
its embrace

my boat of thoughts prepares to sail.

The things left
behind cry as I
go away.

As the leaves
turn from green
to brown;

as the clouds shed
their tears.

I travel onwards
through the oceans
of belief

the gulls up
above are chasing
me away.

The fires burning
deep within

the rain pours
from the flooded heavens

the ground
sweats the stench
of armageddon.

I am shipwrecked
on a bed of nails.

are you satisfied?

--

Life Is Just Another Misspelt Horror

1.

It is all going to fade away
the day, the night, the light
upon which we all depend.

2.

The letters pile beneath
my feet as I spy through the
letterbox at the outside world.

I talk to myself: what do you do?

3.

Carriers of disease sink into my
room bringing songs of bastards
and saints...

They're all the same: saints and bastards.

And my glass is refuelled.

4.

My lungs fill with smoke
and I cough across the
back of my hand and
remember the Parisian
streets and how, when it
rained, they reminded me
of Venice.

It is so peculiar.

5.

Nothing more to say
The bed is cold
now
and the planet is
dying

6.

I, too, wait for death.

--

The Ramblings of a Long-hand Typist

sleep a little in the day smoking forest fires; tupperware
parties for thin, lost housewives in superficial daytime
television true-to-life bullshit. ashtray overflows: the only
other butt I touch apart from my own. the day is slow the pain
is slower; little do we know it's creeping up fast to take us
on the next bend. a hairpin sticks into the sole of my foot
but I don't own it
screamscreamscream
there is nothing wrong?
who are you trying to kid senseless beauty?

nothing flows now the
river has bled into the sea: the drought causes dehydration in the monsoon. the years are now unseasoned foods; the throat clenches; fist; on water that dare to replenish.

sometimes mad; sometimes funny.

always incoherent.

--

Flutter

I turn away
to spit out
the loneliness
but the wind
blows it back
into my hands.

Listing Again

2006-02-28T10:53:00.000Z

Job interview. Room, oversized and occupied by a leather-bound desk, two men (both dressed in immaculate black pin-striped suits) and three chairs. Paintings – what look like museum pieces – litter the walls, hung in a higgledy-piggledy fashion. Clumsy. No one says a word.

I smile, nervously fiddle with my tie. They motion, both of them, with hands, fingers splayed towards the chair nearest to me. I notice the carpet then, a swirling pattern that, if placed on a paving slab by a pub could be mistaken for a pool of congealing vomit. No one says a word.

I sit, thankful to take the weight off my feet and to give the spinning world a chance to calm down and synchronise with my head. I breath, deeply. They smile, show teeth yellow and irregular. I return a dazzle at them, wondering if I have lettuce stuck in my teeth. Does my breath smell of coffee? Cigarettes? Last night's alcohol? No one says a word.

And they come, pouring forth like floodwaters, like molten lava over a village: the questions.

Why did you apply?

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

What aspects of your last job did you dislike and why?

Three words to describe yourself

What's the biggest team you've led to date?

I feel like I'm seeing things sideways. I'm listing. Panic sets in, stomach acid burns my throat and I struggle to speak. Epiglottis flapping, like I'm choking. I breath, calm. No one says a word.

I answer the questions. I answer them all, diligently.

It's now a case of waiting and seeing what comes of it.

Part 5 - Final Resting Place

2006-02-23T08:56:00.000Z

Part 1 can be found here

There's very little left now. Of the house. Small amounts of evidence: the shadows on the hill, demarcating the walls; the well-worn path leading from the spot that was once the back door; the wood pile over to the left. The grass in this area is thick. The sheep stay away. Everyone stays away now.

There are no others that I can take, infect. No Ellens, no Maureens.

There's very little left, but you can discern where it stood, once majestic - now dubbed a house of horrors. Media representation skewed. Schism; some residents in the town didn't want to believe, others could not refute the evidence mounting up. Responsibility was sought. Only twenty or so years had passed. Could people be traced that far back? Press conferences, questions. Constant. Like the rain. There were never any answers. Soon other news took over, became more important. Missing dogs, burglaries. Local school threatened with closure.

There were no complaints when the bulldozers droned into town. It happened so quickly. Even with the rain, it was a speedy demolition. In the morning there was a house, by evening this space. Back to as it had been twenty-three years ago; bare and naked. Lorries piled high with the bones of the house, the red brick skeleton broken into pieces. Over a week they toiled. Then, there was very little left. It had taken that long to remove my body, too.

Things have been laid to rest. Not forgotten. That can't happen now. This story will remain, this evidence of what occurred. There's very little left now. Tiny traces of confirmation, substantiation. The wood pile, rotting. The shadows, defining where walls once stood. A single pink rose, placed in the middle of those shadows. The final resting place.

I have that now.

The rain starts to thin. The clouds separate, disconnect. The sun licks at the open wound of blue sky. I am at peace.

My ghost, quiet. I accept.

The End

Part 4 - The Discovery

2006-02-22T12:27:00.000Z

Part 1 can be found here

Mysterious deaths. Font bold, 36 point. Times New Roman. Hard to ignore. Mysterious. Deaths. Richard folded the newspaper open, ripped pages out. Twisted mouth. Glaring, a focus in his eyes. He fed each page to the fire. Flames and emotions roared. Only the fire died quickly. Wracked by sobs, back pumping, heaving uncontrollably. Maureen had been number three.

The rain continued to piss down.
––
How quickly the early summer had filled with heat. Moving day, faint scent of honeysuckle at the gate. The breeze nuzzled, but was not enough to cool the temperature . Air as thick as cold custard; as stifling as parents.

Removal men remarked on nothing. Lifted, carried, lifted. Carried. Sweat, blue veins standing out at the temples and arms of each man as he struggled. A grunt, call for rest, a reassessment of gaps and weight distribution. They did the job they were being paid for admirably and without complaint. Later, on the drive to the new house they would bitch about Richard. Hated his lack of help, loathed his offers of tea he then forgot to make. All very convenient, they would say to their boss.

Richard and Maureen rounded up the cats; two of them, both grey, both fat - contentment and old age joining forces to broaden stomachs. Mewling in arms, pusheunceremoniouslyly and somewhat ignominiously into cages, in full view of the patient removal men.

All packed up. Done. A quick spring clean around the house. One last look around. Forgotten nothing. Removal van hummed, shaking from side-to-side as engine ticked over. They want to get on, want time for lunch. Shot arrows of hate from their eyes at Richard, as if he were the dog owner who'd allowed his pet to shit on the path just so they would step in it.

The first spots of the rain that would mark the day they moved began to fall.
––
Richard howled, the pain so intense. Loss was a burden, the terrain it created difficult to traverse. He slammed fists into walls, feet at doors; ripping the house apart. Selling it was the wrong thing to do. It needed to be gone. Razed to the ground. Extinction. The rain got harder, stinging shots against glass, the sound like a million buzzing flies. The fire dead in the grate.

Plaster fell, soft in his hands. Digging at walls. A keening cry, mouth emitting between weeping. Face: snot tears anger. Hands smashing, pushing out hatred for what was once a place to call home, a shelter from the bad things.

There had been another death, years back. Almost twenty years ago. Not long after the house had been erected, settled in to the earth. No memory of those days now, only available at the local library. Mr Abbot; he was never a buyer. Previous owner. Yes, he'd fled, run, the proverbial wind behind him. He knew about the disease that had riddled Maureen, seen it. First-hand. He'd fled. Out, into the blasted rain. Constant.

Loose bricks shifted, collapsed. Richard didn't stop. Clawed. Finger nails plugged with dust. Caked. The rain continued to piss down . Hands blindly pulling. Catching on something, not brick. Richard pauses, listening; neck kinked and eyebrow raised. He wants to hear what his fingers grasp. To hear the voice, the story. Deeper, excavating, hands pulling at bricks. There she was, held with brittle hessian. There was the reason for the deaths.

The rain continued to piss down. A steady stream.

Concludes here

Part 3 - Walls Have Secrets

2006-02-22T11:39:00.000Z

Part 1 can be found here

A muffled scream. Snatched. Bundled with sack shielding eyes painful and wide, wet with unknown horrors, with fear. Large hands, how many pairs? Unsure. Difficult to tell. A muffled scream. The smell of oil, musty cloths stained with brake fluid. Sharp edges from toolboxes stab, rough knots of rope chafe. It's dark beneath the makeshift hood.

I lie still. Little Lisa. Everyone wishing me a Happy Birthday, just this morning. There's a party later. Friends visiting. Balloons, jelly and ice cream. Party games. I'll be the centre of attention - where I belong. Defined: precocious, cocky, sassy. Yes, I've got attitude. Mother refers to it as advanced, bright, developed. I use the term mature, prefer it. Suits me best. I imagine my mother later: running in a panic about the neighbourhood. My little girl. Crying out. Bringing people out from their homes, away from their TV dinners, their soap operas; it would give their meaningless lives some purpose. They could feel thankful it wasn't their daughter. Their son. Thankful.

A muffled scream. Snatched. I'm 10-years old. I'm every parents' worst nightmare.

I lie still, my breathing shallow. A sour tang of petrol fills my lungs. Vibrations shake, stir me from shock. A vehicle. A muffled scream. Realisation hits home. Snatched. I've read about girls - girls just like me - and what happens. They never come back. Ever. Only the shells that hold them return, dead or alive. The most popular way to return is dead. The thought causes my bladder to fail.

I kick my legs, a scream muffled as my arms flail. Survival instincts. The car stops, engine cut. I'm hoisted, removed. Voices, conversation, decisions made. Dragged, stones tearing cloth, my flesh. I feel blood trickle down my calves, over my foot. I try to count them. Two, three men at most. They laugh, poke at me, their fingers cast from steel. Baiting me, their prey. I'm dropped. Through a small rip in the sack, I espy my resting place. A house, so red, so vivid. The sun is bright. Framed with green hills dotted with bleating sheep. I glance at wheelbarrows, scaffold, bricks in piles. Then, dragged into gloom.

Oh God, I think. Instincts scream: No. Please. Begging. A muffled scream. No, please. Don't. Hands, pulling, wrenching me out from beneath the sack. My eyes painful and wide, wet with unknown horrors, with fear. Little Lisa. Me. I'm precocious, but even my imagination can't predict the terrors that await. Stinging urine on chapped thighs. I've lost a sock, my foot is cold. I wonder. I wonder what is coming. Dread fills me, drips from pores. They can smell it. They laugh at me. And then it begins.

It is dark when the men are finished, spent. It's done. Without discussion they begin work. Quickly, methodically. It takes no time to cover the body, to hide it. Secreted away. They work under moonlit sky, the roof not yet completed. Hard drops of rain fall. Splitching sounds on the cement floor, doinks on the metal wheelbarrow. Tuneless; the rain tone deaf.

Conveniently, tracks are erased. Every thing disappears. Eventually. Even little Lisa. Twenty years from now, she'll be forgotten. Little Lisa won't like that.

Continued here...

Part 2 - The Photo

2006-02-21T13:33:00.000Z

Part 1 can be found here

Ellen, laughing. The sound gurgling. Like the stream behind the house. She looked so beautiful, the way the sun glinted off her auburn hair. She was with me. How lucky could I get? Was I taking chances beyond what was fair in this world? At that moment in my life I hadn't a care in the world.

Abby, she called. Said my nickname as if it were honey on her lips. Never used my given name: Gregory. Abbot. Held my hand as if it were the most precious thing she would ever touch. We were in love. This was to be our home. Setting: a scattering of undulating hills - nature's grassy breasts suckled by sheep - set back, framing the house. Blue abyss: sky. Clouds like a reflection of the sheep. Russet bricks, bright red roof. The house had seemed to sparkle that day.

A flash. A laugh, the sound gurgling. Look, look! A cry, she came running to me, camera dangling, bumping against hip. Left arm flapping at the wrist. Mouth, wide in a smile. Eyes as bright as the sunshine. Abby: look! There it was, held as if it were fragile: our child; a photo of the house.

Somehow, she'd managed to capture the essence of the day on celluloid. It's the snapshot I bring to mind when I hear her name. It's the only memory I can rely on no. I miss the house. I miss Ellen. One day I will return. Maybe.

It was difficult to pinpoint the exact moment, the nanosecond it happened. At first nothing seemed to change. We fell into an easy life, together. Dreamed of children, bigger houses, better lives earning more money. We did what was expected of us, of people in our day. We lived for those dreams. Laughing, the sound gurgling. Like the stream behind the house.

And then, there it was, impossible to ignore. Had it been waiting, biding its time? Picking its moment to maximum impact? Even now the doctors are unsure. They gave it a name: Invasive ductal carcinoma, layman's terms: breast cancer. We had a name for it, too: death.

Seemed everyone we met said the same: there can't always be a reason, evidence, conviction. These things just happen. Empty words, meaningless. Fluff. That autumn, when the rain came. It seemed to mark the beginning of the end.

It continued to piss with rain. Gurgling like the stream behind the house. Like Ellen's laugh.

I took up smoking when she passed away. Months I'd watched her waste away, drift on an ocean of pain. I was as helpless as she. I wanted to die, to be with her. Smoking seemed to be the best way, I wanted to be stained. Suicide had never been a consideration for me. For Ellen it just never occurred. Her body was killing her. Death was coming. Inevitable, we both knew. Knowledge didn't make it any easier. It felt as if we were the only people experiencing this. How selfish of us.

I wouldn't change that. It kept us sane.

I still have the photo; it still looks as fresh now as it did all those years ago, the day we moved in. The happiest day of my life. The sun has eclipsed now, there is only rain. My thoughts wander to the house, to what it would be like now, in the present. Bricks, pitted with age, hail, water. Eroded like my memories. Much replaced, no doubt. It may even have been demolished. No one could afford houses that big now, not in that area. Run down through economic slumps, unemployment, crime. Only the countryside kept the region popular. In the summer months. Would the photo betray what I held in my mind?

I'd soon find out. I was to visit. A call came, my lawyer. The house was for sale, was I interested? Some things had changed: a new porch (he called it a monstrosity); the gardens were smaller; the house had aged and needed repairs. I think he said TLC. I had to look the abbreviation up. Only then did I understand it was only just repairable. Lawyers=sarcastic about sentimentality.

I accepted the offer, wanted to go back. Wanted to see it again. Just once. That would be enough. Enough to recall her laugh, recall the gurgling sound, see the stream behind the back of the house. I wanted to remember her beauty, the flash of her auburn hair. I wanted to remember back when I felt lucky. Back when I didn't have a care in the world. It was as lucky as I was ever going to get.

I wondered - what other ghosts would need to be laid to rest? I'd been informed of one thing: the rain continues to piss down.

Continued here...

Part 1 - Home Sweet Home

2006-02-20T14:08:00.000Z

There it is. On the left. The house. Cowering beneath slate grey skies, the red brick blush of the roof set stark against the colourless backdrop of hills. The photo held tightly by nicotine yellow fingers shows the hills to be green. It was taken on another day. Taken long ago when the sun last shone. The rain continued to piss down, a steady stream. He would have to get drenched if he was to get a closer look at it.

Fuck: that he'd left his umbrella on the train; that his hat was still lying on the bench outside that cafe. He'd left abruptly as the rain swept in on the broom of a twisting eddy. Hadn't paid his bill. Embarrassment preventing the retrieval.

Meter's running mate. A voice, rough with age and cigarettes. Hand - callus, knotted - held out. Waiting.

Seven. Just a number. No denominations, no naming of the currency. Just a number. Fumbling for coins, notes, all spilling on the back seat. Tutting from the front. Fuck again. The rain continued to piss down.

Minutes later he was sheltering beneath the bulbous porch - a damned monstrosity, his lawyer had called it. But it was exactly what he wanted, had been looking for far and wide for years, decades. For ever. He breathed easy, turned to knock on the solid oak door. Patterns weaved through the grain, like lives through history. It reminded him of the taxi driver's hand. Spellbound, he stared at the door.

Stepped back, surprised, as the door opened, even though he'd known it would be. He was expected. His knock would not have come as a shock. The house was on the market, after all. The owner was in, the estate agent had said so. Assured him. The rain continued to piss down. A stream of water cascaded from a broken gutter clattered on the metal lid of the bin nestled against the house to the right-hand side of the front porch. That would have to be fixed. Another entry on the mental list he was making.

I'm Richard. Hand extended, offered. Taken and shook, Richard with some vigour. You must be Mr Abbot? Head, nod; lips, smile. Richard suggests a drink - so's we can start in the kitchen, it's the best room in the house. Richard is the guide. This way, this door, that passageway. Arms directing flow. The house seemed to be deeper than it looked from the outside. It loomed even more so. Despite the cracks in the plaster, despite the brown patches on the ceiling from the water damage. Despite everything, he thought. He: Mr Abbot, prospective buyer. That's what he was to Richard Franklin.

Richard. Franklin. He thought the names suited, so much better than his own: Gregory. Abbot. He sounded religious, pious even. At best he was agnostic, at worst heretical.

He caught a glimpse, mirror displaying profile: slack hair matted to tight, high forehead; patchy coat, dripping puddles, shivering against body; pale lips and sallow skin splashed liberally with raindrops. A slight growth of beard. This way. He was brought out of his trance. The mirror reflecting doorway again.

They were in the kitchen now. He sat at the breakfast bar while Richard pottered about, preparing tea for two. Biscuits? Sugar? Milk? He said no to them all. No thank you. Manners mattered most.

The rain continued to piss down. Coat steamed on radiator. Shivered. The tea welcome, the perfect introduction to warmth.

As Abbot had expected from looking at the decaying exterior, the house required extensive work. Plaster crumbled, ghostly white powder covering the floor; dawdling motes only disturbed by movement and breath. It gave many rooms a winter wonderland feeling. It made him feel sick. Coughed. Sneezed. They came back down the grandiose staircase; sweeping, cantilevered wooden architectural beauty. The only thing worth rescuing, he thought.

Tour complete, back in the kitchen. Time for Richard to answer some questions. Abbot needed to know certain things. He licked his lips, eyes diverting to the floor, hands in and out of pockets. He found these scenarios difficult. After all, there had been stories circulating. The taxi driver clammed up when he discovered that he hadn't known all the facts. Not my place to say. Head, shook; mouth, turned down.

Simple enough. Ask. Why are you leaving? Just that one question. He'll be honest, he'll explain. Perhaps it's a scandal, village gossips pointing, whispering, snickering? Perhaps perhaps perhaps. It comes out, blurted. Uncontrollable, the floodgates open, pouring, gushing. He felt embarrassment, he felt the shock. The question reverberated, struggled as it hung.

And then it came out, Richard spilled his secret. His reason. For there is only one reason he can't wait to move. Abbot needed to know certain things; in the end they all would.

The door, flung open. The rain continued to piss down. Umbrella, hat, embarrassment, all forgotten. He won't be buying. No money exchanged. The colour of the kitchen tiles had been too red. He'd known, suspected at the very least. It's why the taxi driver had stopped talking, become reticent to engage in conversation. It answered a lot of questions for Mr Abbot.

Richard watched him rush down the road. Another one. He knew the agent would call and offer to do the viewings. He couldn't be trusted to keep his mouth shut, to keep quiet. Maybe someone was trying to tell him something? Was he meant to stay? Was that his punishment?

Continued here...

Confession

2006-02-17T15:23:00.000Z

I know you've been there, out back beyond the lake. I saw you, watched you.

I was sitting in the thicket. Over to the left. Remember looking over? I thought I'd been discovered. Had you noticed me, I wouldn't be here now, retelling this story again for the benefit of those nice people in suits. You'd have killed me, too.

[Keep the story, ma'am]

...beyond the lake, where the sun sets. Deep reds bleed into the blue, wisps of cloud sponging up the colour as if they were balls of cotton wool. That's where you'll find the hut.

I was sitting in the thicket, hiding, secreting myself. Over to the left. He saw me (points finger at accused), but he must've thought I was a dog or some other animal. He stared. I held my breath. The thicket was enough to prevent me being seen. He turned away, I sucked in some air.

I stayed sitting there in the dust, just breathing deeply. The door on that hut was no match for a boot from Mr Cartwright. He's a big man. I was scared. I stayed where I was. He was cursing, too. Loudly.

I can't repeat what he said

[For the rest of the court, the statement reads use of the f-word and the c-word, I'm sure you good people don't need no other details? You may continue, ma'am]

He was cursing and kicking up some dust. The sun was getting low, shadows longer than you are tall, sir. I was blinded for a moment, 'til that sun dipped below the pitch. That's when I knew he'd done something bad. He was dragging out a sack. It looked mighty heavy, real tough to move. I estimate that it had a weight of a hundred fifty pound, at least. Big, it was. I was sitting in dust, hiding in that thicket. I was scared.

And that's when I ran. Course, he must've saw me. He was shouting - not cursing, mind, but calling out to me. But I didn't stop. No way. I seen what he did.

[And is that when you went to the police, ma'am?]

Oh yes, no hesitation.

[Thank you, ma'am. No further questions]

Can I get down now?

[No, Mr. Charleson here would like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind?]

Well...

[That's rhetorical, Miss, Miss...]

Fairbright, sir. I told the police everything I saw, what I just repeated here for the court.

[Yes. However, I would like to know a little bit more about how you came to be in that thicket. You've admitted yourself that it's a strange place to find someone, but yet there you are. Sitting, as you say, in the, er, dust. Hmm?]

Well...

[Not only that, you seem to be able to assess weight almost perfectly, as if you'd read the report, or perhaps you're clairvoyant? On the other hand, perhaps you know how much effort it takes to move a body weighting (checks paperwork) approximately 150lbs? Can you enlighten us, ma'am?]

I often go out there, to sit. That hut used to belong to my father, 'fore his farm was taken away from him, 'fore he was forced to beg for food. 'Fore he died. I like to go sit there, remember old times, good times. Ain't no law against it.

I don't know nothing about that weight thing. I was just lucky in guessing that amount, I suppose. It was him that done it (points finger at accused again, thrusting out finger in jabbing motion).

[Then, Miss Fairbright, perhaps you can tell us why your fingerprints are on (turns around, reaches for plastic bag) Exhibit 437. A six-inch kitchen knife. The blood matches the victim. Well, Miss Fairbright, what do you say?]

Miss Guided

2006-02-17T14:14:00.000Z

I bite down on my hand to quell the shrieks congregating in my throat, like teenage girls out shopping on a Saturday afternoon. Bile burns, cough hacks. Tears tumble out, my only drink for hours now. How much longer?

I bite down hard on my hand to stop the shakes that flash through my body. I can see the camera, mounted on the wall. It's recording me, this event. Will I live to watch it back?

Hands clasp my shoulders, nails digging. Flesh, the slapping of his movements. I concentrate on the swirls in the carpet. I put together the details of my surroundings: the red and ochre cloth of the makeshift curtains; the peach colour of the wood inlay on the wardrobe; the flecks of green dotted through the bedspread - the one I chose from that department store in town.

I bite down hard on my hand. I feel the scarf wrap around my neck. It tickles as it spreads, like tendrils of a plant. Tight in an instant, breath imprisoned in my lungs. I concentrate on the swirls in the carpet. Flesh slaps, bile burns. Cough hacks.

I bite down hard on my hand and suddenly it's over. I break down, weeping. My tears mixing with the blood snaking down my arm. My teeth are red. My look, horror. And then the cloth, warm water trickles to the small of my back, showering over my quivering hips and the crevice between my cheeks. Soothing. A hand runs over me, gently washing away the brutality of earlier.

I turn, kiss the lips of Oliver, murmur words of love.

I hold out my hand, bandages securing my blood beneath my skin. I kiss the lips of Oliver, let him wash me, clean me.

We've been together four years, for years. Years, we've been together. So long it seems like for ever. I love him.

Oliver stops the video. Speaks: something for the archives.

I kiss the lips of Oliver. I love him.

He says he loves me.

Untitled

2006-02-17T14:12:00.000Z

I

Piece by piece
the strands snap and we're left to
spiral
out of control
hurtling
destination unknown.

The Shackles
are removed, but an
anchor is
desperately
needed

on the deck
to stop us from drifting
where the waters are
deepest

II

four letters
three words

III

there was a time today where I felt like crawling inside my skin, rooting out

the endless

need

for someone to be near me
touching
just that simple thing:

touching my skin

and then it passed.
just
like
that

IV

too few words to say how I feel
not enough time to show it

Waking Me Up

2006-02-15T16:11:00.000Z

My arms windmill, like earth turning
rotating
but still I fall

I feel my ideas melt, butter-on-toast thoughts drip-feeding
drip
drip
drip

Today started early and I felt time squeeze itself into the backseat, baggage and all. I flicked open the ashtray, stared like the rays of sun through snowstorms and coughed as if my life depended on it. Lungs sounded identical to car turning over

and it went back to sleep three times [some thing I dream of every morning]

that’s the cold
freezing
chilly

bitter like lemon juice. Thank fuck it’s not raining. Again.

Doesn’t make the alarm clock bearable.

Doesn’t stop my limbs from twisting in agony, frozen animation, numb.

Pins
Needles
Pins
Needles

The day flows away from me, blood flows around me once more.

Always On My Mind

2006-02-15T14:14:00.000Z

Elvis, I’m your conscience. Yes, really. Now, you and I really need to sit down and start debating some of these things you’re doing. Not just the things you do to others, but things you do to yourself.

I don’t want to nag, but – no, I do want to nag. I’ve got to live with the consequences. I’m plagued on a daily basis with rhetorical questions and a (seemingly) never-ending run of what-ifs. All you need to do is get up and live life as if things didn’t happen. Sing a few songs, swing those hips, etc. And that would be easy, except for me: your conscience.

Hey, don’t try to get smart with me! I know your innermost thoughts and feelings better than you do and no amount of drug-taking or bingeing is going to change that, so get used to it.

Oh, did I mention you can’t shut me off? Yeah, and you think you’ve got the shit end of the stick. It’s hard being hard done by; don’t I know it.

The first thing we need to get sorted is your intake of alcohol. Now, I like a tipple – red wine’s more my thing, but if it simply must be lager – but not in quantities that could fill an ocean. Every night. You seem to think that I have the power to stop you. I don’t. All I can do is make you say things like:

I promise I’ll never drink again
Alcohol is for fools
My head hurts
I think I’m going to be sick

I can’t do anything else. I’m not hard-coded for willpower, that’s frontal lobes over there you need to speak to about that one. You might find him hard to wake because he was up most of the night on a coke binge.

You’ve only yourself to blame. Hey, don’t start telling me I’m like your Mum! You’re the one that put down these patterns. It’s just my job to remind you of them every now and again.

Secondly, speeding cars and stationary humans don’t mix. Okay, you’ve probably worked that one out for yourself. Pain has a way of bringing things into perspective, fairly acutely I might add.

Whoa! No, that’s not… hang on a minute…

Not that switch! No, that will shut me up, but it has the unfortunate effect of shutting everything off. There ain’t no going back if you flick that switch. No more beer, no more girls, no more nothing.

It’s your choice. All I can do is give you advi…

Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.

Around Here

2006-02-13T16:06:00.000Z

I watch the girls congregating on the pavement outside the working men's club. Paint peeling smiles under overcast skies and even more overcast eyes. Many of them scratch at their arms, a sign of them being a user. Not that they'd want anything to do with me, even if I had the inclination and money. I don't blame them, I'm damaged goods. They can be cleaned up, made respectable.

The diseases offered on this street menu didn't stop a steady stream of cars from stopping, returning within ten minutes. Each man believing he was the first she'd had that day, had cleaned herself up just for him. That's what counts for romance around here.

One of them points at the painted sign of the club and says they should change it to working girls club. They giggle, the gaggle. Spit on the floor, walk away towards the disused factories where the lads hang out and sniff glue. It's Bob's turn to buy.

I kick my beaten shoes through leaves, the ripped hems of my jeans floating out like the arms of anenomes sitting on the sea floor, strands of hope; like heart strings. My presence scatters the residents from their manicured lawns, content to watch me pass from behind the safety of twitching curtains. Only when my progress could be accounted for by a friend from further down the road did they stop hiding, did they let their children out to play, resume life as they knew it. They recognise the death I carry around, as if I've made cancer and carry it around in my pocket, ready to fling it at innocent passers-by. Some of them weren't here when it happened; perhaps they read it on the microfiche at the library, perhaps neighbourly people set them straight, made sure I was pointed out. Whatever the reason, they're doing me a favour.

The rain stops. I stop. The world appears to stop with me. Time stands still for a moment, as if the sky took a photograph, settled on a memory. Then I carry on walking.

I decide to cut through the centre of town, to maybe take in a burger bar that doesn't have a queue. That was my mistake. Two of them, waiting. I don't bother to run, it makes no difference; if not today then another day is sure to come around. As sure as death and taxes.

Curled in a ball, waiting, biding my time. I feel them yank me to my feet, march me to their car. The bruises from the truncheons are beginning to show. One moves the CCTV camera back round, gets on the radio, makes adjustments. I'm handcuffed. Roughly pushed into the back of a vehicle. Lying, twisted. Agony. Humiliation. It's warm in the car, something I'm grateful for. I don't let on, though.

We drive. I can't see where we are going, my face pushed into the seat and my body collapsing into the footwell. I only listen.

The conversation is the same: who is he then? what's he done? Is it the one so-and-so told me about?

The answers come quickly, out with them like bitter foods as soon as they touch tongue. He's the one what killed them little kids, he's the one that's a bit soft in the head - a cackle of laughter, a cough...

that why we need to keep kicking it? we need to toughen it up.

Another cough - yes, he's scum.

But they don't get the dreams, the visions. They don't hear the screams, the pleading. They don't smell, they don't smell...

You know how it happened, Bob? One asks.

I wasn't there, but Joey told me it was horrible. Burning bodies, everywhere. The smell he said was like a barbecue. He said it made him both hungry and nauseous at the same time. They paid him thousands in sick pay. Man was off for months, haunted he said. Said this fucker in the back was responsible, admitted to it immediately. Held up his hands and told Joey to take him away. Well, we did. State said he wasn't fit to be tried, let him go into a fucking hospital.

Jeez, they really do that? What'd the parents say?

That's just it, they agreed, said it was some kind of accident. Nothing malicious. Well, we don't believe that, which is why we often take our friend here for a ride, remind him that we know he's guilty.

Murderer. They scream it at me as they rain blows down on my back. I'm unable to protect myself.

It's not true. I was a witness. The bus, too fast. It's a blur, now. I was in a car, as a passenger. My friend was taking me back to my school. A school for special people. I was special. Next I know I'm in the road, holding up my arms, looking for help. They cuffed me. I thought I must be in the wrong. That's what the dreams say.

Some times I wonder if I'm wrong. Occasionally, I think I deserve it. The punishment.

They take me back to the wasteland. I hear the girls calling, whistling.

The car stops. Doors open, slam. I hear suckling sounds, groans. I try to blot it out. Seconds last for a long time. I feel sick.

And then the door nearest my head is wrenched open, I'm dragged by my hair out onto the ground. I'm left on the floor as the car pulls away. Stiletto heels kick at me,

fuck off, you're ruining our business

did you smell him? Ugh, stunk worse than the sweat on that cop's cock.

They giggle, the gaggle.

I crawl away and watch them. I watch the girls congregating on the pavement outside the working men's club. I wish they'd like me. I wish I could be one of their friends. I wish I could be someone's friend.

FOR IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION

2006-02-06T16:28:00.000Z

Readers of this Weblog will be shocked by the news that the author has recently been arrested. Details at this time are sketchy and more particulars will be released as news comes in.

At this time, all we know is that police caught the author at a local supermarket, where sniffer dogs have recently been employed to cut down on the number of drug-related incidences occurring on the premises.

Legal counsel for the accused provided the following statement earlier today:

“As you will no doubt have heard, our client was arrested in a routine stop and search at his local supermarket. Officers approached our client after being alerted by sniffer dogs.

“Following a search of our client’s clothing, a small amount of narcotics was found secreted on his person, although we are unable to confirm the nature of these substances at this time.”

A police spokesperson said: “I cannot possibly comment on individual cases, but we can confirm we are holding a suspect, pending further investigation.”

-ends-

Counting on Fear

2006-02-01T17:51:00.000Z

I start counting backwards from 100
In steps of 3.
97
94
91
88
85
82
79
76
73
…
01

It doesn’t take me long and still the fear is there, palpable.
From there I use the alphabet to control things.
Thinking of a number, finding its corresponding letter.
It’s a test.

20=T
4=D
12=L

I feel my pulse fall to normal levels, my heart slows and the heat in my head dissipates.

I can do these tricks in seconds now; I’ve used them for so many years.

Only once they are complete am I able to step out of bed.

Tagged

2006-01-31T12:07:00.000Z

I've been tagged by Gina and this story is my five things you didn’t know about me. So, for once, this is not fiction.

I try not to be selfish. This is why:

I can recall the day the phone rang and my father was on the other end. He told me my mother was dying. It was a Wednesday. I’d just been burgled. It's as clear to me now as it was all those years ago. It was one of those days: a shit one.

I shouldn't have been surprised by the call; we're all on our way to death. Still, it came as a shock. Now I am numb to it. It's what happens as time drags on. I almost wish I could scream at her: what's taking so fucking long, I've been mourning you for almost two years; can’t you see what it's doing to us?

Instead, I hug her, hold back my tears and remind my mother that I want her around to see me get married, have children, live my life.

To think that only seven years ago I tried to take my own life, to discard this precious gift as if it were a soiled blanket. How selfish I was. Perhaps I am still? I try not to be.

I have a copy of every book written by Charles Bukowski. His sense of self-esteem mirrors mine, but I've learned that drugs only blank things for a while. Drugs? I’ve tried them all. I've failed with them, too. Now, I sup at beers and suck on joints held together with the spit of friends and lovers. I regained my love of writing from his books, helping me to gain publication of my poems and short stories.

I gave it all up for a career in advertising. If I ever had a soul, I know it's been sold many times over. I keep checking eBay, but to no avail.

Often these days it's music that keeps me going. I can't stand the sound of silence and have to put the radio on if there is no access to CDs or musical instruments. In times of real distress I reach for a guitar, strum a tune or two. Music calms me and in the past it has stopped me from doing something stupid with razor blades.

Over the past 12 months I have given up many of my vices. It's been an arduous journey, particularly the no smoking. I took up yoga to help. It has worked for me and I can now bend my body into interesting shapes.

I still crave cigarettes from time-to-time. Such as during my waking hours. But I abstain.

It's a sign of me maturing, I guess. Only a little.

I still remember every word in the script of Pulp Fiction. It's a film that no one can ever watch with me. I annoy people with my reciting. It stems from the time I took a strong hit of LSD, watched the film three times in a row. Since then, the words have embedded themselves in my brain. It makes for nicer flashbacks.

I'm pleased I never watched soap operas. Flashbacks would have been hard to live with if I had.

I now tag the following people:

Kim

Tanya

Dori

Chris

Rayna

I just hope they have the time and inclination to write out a list.

The last night out

2006-01-29T14:58:00.000Z

I feel the
pulse pulse pulse pulse
of the dancefloor, watch the lights swirl and sparkle, catching
glints in eyes and the tall glasses filled with coloured liquids.
Held tightly in hands. Fingers wrapped.
I smile, watch bodies jerk backward and forward in time with the beat.
I smile and watch.
The floor of the nightclub is packed with people sweating profusely.
I sip water and smile.
Larger men roam, carefully moving past the dancing hoards, floating through the area like icebergs, silent and cold, waving hands in front of their face to clear fog of cigarette smoke and dry ice, noticing everything around them, every nuance, every
nod wink raised finger.
I smile and watch.
I spy a friend, John, pushing his way to the bar, a note held aloft. He's waving to attract the barman's attention. He is shouting, grimacing and he looks menacing. People move out of his way. A modern day Moses. He is served, money exchanged, pints in hand, he smiles as he excuses his way through the throng of sweaty bodies. He takes a chance
casts a glance to me.
I smile and watch. I don't raise
my hand
I don't want to attract attention, which is why I sent John down with the
money. To the bar. To get the drinks in.
I feel his presence behind me and I turn.
Cool, he says, passing me a pint glass, the top centimetre of liquid missing
spilled on the floor and on his shirt. He doesn't notice. The pill
has made him unaware of such things.
I smile and take the glass, spilling more on the floor as I do so.
I drink, a large gulp.
Swallow, drink, swallow, drink.
Swallow.
And then I turn. I smile and watch.
There is a group of young girls, barely old enough to be eligible to get through the door, to get into the club. Perhaps they know the man-mountain on the door? Maybe they were nice to him?
I don't care. I smile and I watch.
They dance, not caring who sees them. Their inhibitions have been cast away. One of the girls reaches into her bag, rummages.
Comes out with nothing. Shakes her head. Taps her friend on the shoulder.
I see friend shake her head, too. Hands held out, palms up. Shrug.
They both look around. I smile and I watch.
When they look directly at me, I nod my head. One points. The other pulls her friend's hand down, says no. She is discreet. She has chosen me. I nod again, a signal to
approach me.
I feel the pulse of the dancefloor.
I smile and I watch.
John says, here we go and I turn to
see them standing no more than two feet away.
Discreet leans in, says, what ya got?
I lean in, say, whatever you need.
I smile.
I wait.
I watch.
Inevitable question: how much?
This ones on me, I say. I smile again. She grins. Says
thanks mate, let me get you a beer then?
I nod. She leaves, her friend still stands there. She smiles at John.
He says hello, looks at his feet.
I pass her a pill. John says he'll pay. I take his money.
Discreet comes back, passes me a bottle of beer. I exchange it
for a pill. She kisses my cheek
whispers
Thank you again.
I turn around. I smile and watch.
I feel the pulse of the dancefloor.
I pour my beer down behind the seat. I don't like to get out of
control too often. Tonight I want to be able to remember.
I turn back to the girl, smile and ask her name.
Cheryl, she says.
Lovely name, I say. It's the name of my aunt. I lie.
She blushes.
I always liked my aunt. I smile. She blushes
again.
Do you want to go somewhere quieter? I ask.
I know the pill is working. She nods her head. I know the pill
is working.
Agreement.
Somewhere much quieter, she leans against me, her pert breasts pushing into my arm
I can feel how erect her nipples are. The pill
is working.
We leave. John is kissing her friend. They will be happy - will wake tomorrow,
possibly with regrets, possibly not. But they will be happy. I turn as we get to the dancefloor. I can feel its pulse.
I smile and watch.
We exit the club. I have to hold the girl up. Cheryl. Discreet little Cheryl. Lovely name.
The pill is working.
My car is parked behind the club, in shadows. Cheryl's body drops easily into the passenger seat.
Let me get you home, I say.
Somewhere quieter, she replies. I smile
and watch.
I know somewhere really quiet. I whisper to her. Somewhere we'll never
be disturbed.
Quickly, start the car, drive away.
All night I smile.
And watch.

That's your lottery

2006-01-24T13:35:00.000Z

Here are some opening facts about me: I'm a millionaire. I won my money on the lottery, but I have yet to tell most people, including my family; I don't want begging letters coming to me from people pretending to be my friend. I also don't need my family assuming because we share a common link they are due some cash – they're not.

I know that some of you may find it hard to believe that this story is true. I can't convince you any more than with these words, really I can't. Well, perhaps I could, but then I'd have to kill you.

Okay, I know that’s a cliché, but it’s a statement that also happens to be as true as the story I am about to tell you.

It all began about a year ago. I was lying in bed, watching shadows pass on the ceiling, waiting until I felt like I wanted to face the world. I'd had a hard year of arguments, stress and the death of a close relative. I’m not looking for pity/sympathy – I'm just giving you some relevant back story.

So, there I was, lying back and day-dreaming. Wondering. It was then that I noticed the buzzing. I looked about for a fly, hand ready to lash out and splat it against a hard surface, but I couldn't locate it. It was the first time I'd heard the buzzing sound and I sat up in bed, my head moving about as I struggled to find the source of the distraction.

Over the course of several days, the buzzing got louder. By this time, I'd noted that it was intermittent, some long buzzes followed by shorter bursts of static noise. Not knowing what it was, or what might be causing it, I made an appointment at the doctor's surgery. Surely, someone with a white coat and untidy handwriting could get to the bottom of this droning sound.

They did. The simple conclusion: tinnitus.

So, I did what any normal person would do and I looked it up on the Internet. It is described as:

Tinnitus is the condition where noises 'in the ears' and/or 'in the head' are heard but where they appear to have no external source. Tinnitus noises are described variously as ringing, whistling, buzzing and humming.

Easy. Problem solved. Or so I thought.

I discovered an old professor, for whom tinnitus had become a life's work, labouring in the bowels of some London hospital. He suffered, too, something that proved to be a turning point in my discovery.

On our first meeting he asked me to tell him more about the noises I was hearing. I described them in detail, making great use of as many onomatopoeic phrases as I could muster. It was then that he dropped his bombshell.

"You haven’t got tinnitus, at least not in any form I know of."

Dismay hit me full in the face, knocking me off-centre. What was worse, the noise in my head or not having a name for it? I couldn't decide. I left the hospital feeling worse than when I'd arrived. I guessed I’d have to live with this affliction after all, whatever it was to be called.

Two months later the buzzing noise was still evident, but I could now discern that there was a pattern to it. Perhaps this will unlock the nature of this annoyance? All I needed to do was unearth the pattern and I'd have all the answers. I knew it could take months to work out, but I believed I had a decent starting point.

The only patterns I knew came from Morse code. Dots and dashes.

Finally, it all fell into place. It was a pattern. It was code. Numbers.

There were six numbers in all. Ranging from 7 to 42. I wrote them on a piece of paper and spent a huge amount of my time staring at them, trying to figure out what they meant. Nothing came to me.

I ducked out of the house to grab a paper from my local newsagents. While I was there I saw a sign for the lottery. I hadn't had a lot of luck over the months, so I thought I'd see if things might change. It was then I put two and two together and for the first time it added up to four.

The buzzing in my head was a set of lottery numbers.

Maybe that wasn't the real answer, but I knew it couldn't hurt to use them. I quickly grabbed a pen and an entry form, filled in the numbers from the piece of paper and paid for my lottery ticket.

The following day I checked my numbers and, yep, you've guessed it:

I'd won. The jackpot.

That was six months ago. No sooner had I placed my hand on the cheque, the buzzing stopped. To this day I don’t know if I was meant to use them to win or if it was a strange coincidence. Now I'm £12 million richer I really don’t care.

I've not used the numbers since. I've only played the lottery once. Odds are I won't win again. So, perhaps you can make use of my numbers, see what they can do for you.

Here they are: 7, 18, 34, 35, 39, and 42.

Haiku

2006-01-24T10:23:00.000Z

Life slips by quickly
There is barely time to stop
And think. Don’t you feel?

Bus Ride

2006-01-23T16:38:00.000Z

I picked off the lollipop stuck to the side of my skirt and hunkered down for the rest of the bus journey, my face covered in scowl-grimace-fuck-you-don’t-even-think-about-speaking-to-me glower.

It's something I'd perfected with musty aunts back at the time when Christmas meant something magical.

I was off on a journey of discovery; I didn't have a clue where I was headed, that's what I'm saying here. My mask was working: I had the whole back seat on which to lounge. Not even the wisps of smoke from my cigarette attracted more than a few curses, black looks, whispered insults from the blue-rinse brigade.

I watched landscapes trundle by the window, the shade just pulled down sufficiently to keep the sun out of my eyes. Like the smoke from my cigarette I began to drift off.

Bumps in the road jolt me awake, consciousness bright as winter sunlight. I look around. No one else is on the bus.

Where did they go? How long have I been sleeping? Where am I?

I start to get up, but a violent and wild swing of the wheel brings me down hard in the aisle. A simple, single phrase passes through my head: what the fuck.

I crawl to a seat, sit down again and try to discern where I am in the city. I recognise nothing: anywhere. Nowhere. Not one landmark kick-starts my memory.

I shout out, but no reply. Quiet at the front. I see eyes in the rear view, hands on the steering wheel, but they are just abstract images of a whole person. I hear no voice. Just the rumble of the engine, the throaty roar as driver and accelerator combine. I start to get scared.

Stomach knots, brow knits. Hands sweat, shake, rattle as we roll. I pull a battered personal stereo out of my pocket; headphones connect my ears to sounds. I turn it up loud, so I can’t hear my immediate environment. I close my eyes. I smell cigarette smoke again but I don’t have one on the go.

With sudden movement we stop, still. Footsteps clunk up the central aisle. I try not to flinch, but know I do. Still I keep my eyes shut.

"Sonny, I have to tell you that you’re not allowed to smoke on this bus. Please extinguish your cigarette or you’ll have to leave the vehicle."

Footsteps again. Moving away.

I open my eyes. There are many pairs of eyes staring back at me. My cigarette has burned away to the stub, making my fingers turn a darkened yellow. I turn red. I must have been asleep, dreaming.

Now, I wish I was.

[A] Blockage

2006-01-23T12:48:00.000Z

It sits there, mocking me.

Days ago I thought I’d left this behind
believed I’d given it the slip
pulled the wool over its eyes
put it to the back of my mind

but like a frightened horse it rears up its head

I cast my eyes to the ground, hunch my shoulders and pull myself inward

I’m writing this with a gun held to my head

so it seems

must let the words flow and try not to think too much about style, form, content; just let things move

out of my head in a constant stream

a waterfall

still it sits there, mocking me.

my writer’s block.

Not in my house

2006-01-19T17:30:00.000Z

I've been burgled before. It’s never nice to come home to a ransacked house. Today it looked as if someone had come along, picked up my house and shaken it, like they were they trying to make some sort of cocktail. The contents of drawers were strewn throughout the house, up stairs and across beds – a clothing ejaculation.

I staggered from room to room, trying hard to take it all in when I heard a noise coming from the bathroom.

I looked about – almost as if I wished there to be a gun on which my hand could fall, just as Bruce Willis' character in Pulp Fiction when he discovers John Travolta's hit man taking a shit in his toilet – but my eyes didn’t seem to focus on anything but the mess.

Anger welled inside of me; this was my chance to exact revenge. I felt like a fucking rabbit caught in headlights. I'd always assumed I know what to do in these situations; I'd spent time discussing it with friends who'd been the target of thieves in the past:

"Yeah, I'd fucking kill 'em; if I found one in my house, he'd better pray someone's called the fucking police, cos when I get my hands on him..."

Lots of sentences like that. I'd been lying, not only to my friends but to myself. I was not into confrontation. Not as much as I'd thought I would be.

This time, a different set of thoughts went through my head:

What if he's got a gun?
What if he's bigger than me?
What if the police say I've used more than reasonable force?
What if...

It was just a bunch of ifs. I couldn't stand around waiting to see if I'd get whacked first. I had to be in charge of the situation, otherwise I might find that some ambulance driver – say, one who's been awake for days thanks to the problem of a lack of staff – falls asleep at the wheel of his vehicle just at the point he drives onto a bridge.

I decided to take charge, to turn this set of undefined circumstances into a positive outcome and ensure that things turned out the way any normal people would expect them to conclude. So, I did what that 'normal' person would do:

I crept to the under-stairs cupboard, retrieved the baseball bat and slinked back to the kitchen. I grabbed a large knife (more for effect than for use: I don’t like blood) just in case.

Then, the door to the bathroom opened.

I didn't wait around for explanations. I just flew at the intruder, my arms flailing. I didn't take any time to look at his face, his build, whether he had a weapon or was empty-handed. I just did what I had to do. To protect myself, my property. Protect what I'd spent years building up.

Only when the body stopped moving and I had to fight for breath did I finally cease. Only when the police came did I put down the bat, drop the knife on the blood-stained floor. Only then did I become restrained.

The masked body of my opponent – for that is how I viewed them in my head – lay on the floor, not even a twitch of movement. A policeman bent forward, hand poised to pull off the mask. A thought ran through my head: I would've got away for it if it hadn’t been for those pesky kids, or in this case pesky baseball bat. I smiled.

That soon dropped from my face, joining the bat and my jaw on the floor.

I hadn't expected it to be my son.

One day out of many

2006-01-10T15:14:00.000Z

We were out chasing rabbits, the mist curling over the dew-encrusted hills, early morning light bouncing through the trees so we had to squint to see where to point our guns.

You're my reminder, as always; there are still days when my mind fogs over.
Like waterlogged fields
Never clearing, never draining.

The men watched as we stumbled; feet catching on the numerous cavities scattered over the field while we ran, our hands becoming covered. Mud sticks, so does circumstance. Something I would soon find out.

Breath streamed away from our mouths, pooling in the air around us. The loudness of the guns' bangbangbang made you jump; momentarily I could have sworn you actually left your skin – it seemed so wrinkled afterwards, as if you’d stayed too long in the bath. Your eyes wide, hair on end. Frightened.

I laughed, my teeth glinting in the sunlight. When I composed myself you weren’t there.

We found you some metres away from where I was standing. Breath was sucked in, sharply. I marvelled at how little blood there was, considering the amount of holes I managed to count before father dragged me away. Gun, snatched from my hands. Tossed to one side. Anger crowded around me, palpable in its intensity.

Immediately, I wanted to swap places, to be lying on the ground instead of you. I envied you, jealous of the attention you were receiving.

bastardbastardbastardbastard whispered under breath.

Will you forgive me? Can you?

Running Around On A Beach In Winter

2006-01-09T13:57:00.000Z

The coastline is forever shifting.
Tomorrow is will be different once again.
Nothing will be left to show
we were here, how we danced, laughed, lived. And died.

Remember: the wind whipped; dressed in leather it was,
barking orders to us that we
chose to ignore. We turned our backs,
leant toward each other to stay warm and
accepted each others’ hot breath into
lungs burning with the cold.

Laughter snatched from lips and carried
to distant lands where it would never be understood. The bottom of our clothes
dragging through the salt. White crusts on hems.
Our eyes black pits; our skin red raw
like the plucked turkey skin from the days just gone.

One year on, our tears are the only evidence that we ever existed.

The Photograph

2006-01-09T11:42:00.000Z

Dear Sarah,
Here's the photograph on which my whole case is based. Look beyond the bent corners, the unsaturated colours and the fake smiles. Look into the real action that's taking place behind the focus of the shot. Look carefully. What do you see?

Can you make out, nestled in the shadows, the hidden person? That person is me. I don't expect you remember me being there, as you were what? Three, perhaps four-years old? It doesn't seem all that long ago I was bouncing you on my knee, making your gurgle with laughter so that you mother thought you might "bring up your tea all over my clean sofa". We just laughed some more, didn't we? Surely you must recall that?

If you ask about I would expect that some recollection remains in the minds of the older people who were guests that night. Maybe they retained some vital information about me that you’ve been seeking; some snippet of evil only they noticed, but through which they can justify their vitriol. Perhaps they just want to be interviewed on the television like those I went to school with? I don't think I'll ever know.

Those times were happy ones, were they not? Didn't we have fun, you and I? Didn't we? I implore you to spit out your memories to the court, to tell the jury that I was a friend – your only friend during those times – and that I looked after you like your mother never could thanks largely to her daily alcohol consumption – a point, I might add, that has been overlooked by both the media and my lawyer. Still, the fact that she is now dead probably means that this nugget of information is unlikely to help me in my predicament.

All I have left of those happier times is this photograph. Of course, it proves nothing, let alone my innocence, but to me it means a lot. To me it points to a time when accusations weren't provided by the shouts of hundreds of people, when words didn't count as 'pointing the finger', when police authorities did their job and researched an individual's background and didn't rely on rhetoric from a national newspaper. I knew my life was over when they came and held placards outside my house – many misspelled and illegible – with their children tagging along, taken out of school to be shown my home firsthand.

Then, following nights brought bricks and bottles of petrol with lit rags dangling from the small opening. It brought angry letters to the local newspaper. It didn't take long for me to lose my job, to be ostracised by friends, family, colleagues and – in a final fuck you – by everyone within a 10-mile radius of my home. And for what?

For something that we are all guilty of at some point in our miserable lives: for telling the truth, for dealing with the scum that permeates our society. However, somewhere along the line it backfired and I must pay the consequences for my actions.

Is it a fair society that allows you to get away with... with murder? Yes, with murder. Is it reasonable that I must feel the wrath of people for whom none of this is real? These people, they have only the journalists' words to use as a weapon. The same journalists upon whom they pour scorn every single day. It makes me sick to think about it.

And, it's because of you that I find myself here, staring death in the face on a daily basis. Thanks to you I stand accused of these crimes. Thanks to you, my love.

So, you look closely as the photograph. Stare at me, send your hate forth. When I am gone, you'll come to realise that it was I that protected you from your uncle. Protected your virtue, warned him away.

However, it does no good to me now. I do admit that it was I who killed you. I never touched you, though: not once. If only you could be here to tell them it was an accident, to tell them that I was saving you from a fate worse than... worse than what? Death?

So, look closely at the photograph. There is a man captured in that photograph, a man who will cause more pain than I ever could. I am only guilty of trying to protect you, to save you, to keep you pure. To that, my Lord, I plead guilty.

Yours lovingly

Dad

The Days After

2006-01-08T13:59:00.000Z

The streets steamed after the rain, but some stains were harder to wash away and the council workers could be found with stiff brooms, running back and forth through the streets. They were trying to eradicate the evidence, but no amount of scrubbing could erase it from the minds of those that witnessed the brutality of the government at first-hand.

The nightmare continued for weeks afterwards; sleep eluded only those that didn’t succumb to the rivers of drugs that flooded the area following the massacre. Wherever you looked there would be small crowds of people huddled in a corner of the town square. On occasions, small pockets of fighting would break out, but no one seemed bothered. Corpses in the street were a daily occurrence now. It was something we all had to get used to.

Those of us wanting to go back to the old ways could be found hiding in the old municipal bank, a sturdy edifice that we believed would protect us from our new enemies. We would go out at night foraging for food, anything that could sustain us. We often found only meagre scraps of rotting meat, so we stripped the bodies of the dead. Sometimes they would move, perhaps cry out and one of us would have to use our shovel to silence them. Being discovered was a bigger nightmare than the images that haunted our dreams.

Within hours all the council workers had disappeared from the streets and an eerie silence descended. The sizzle of the rain against the asphalt was the only sound that could be heard, but that soon became a solitary drip from the corrugated roofs of the shacks that lined the main highway, their owners long gone now. The wares that would usually be found stacked neatly within these shady lean-tos now looted by scores of blank-eyed rioters. There was nothing left, not even birds seemed to be in song.

I clung to my doll throughout the ordeal, my eyes tightly shut and my hands clamped over my ears. Blotting it out seemed to save me. I remember being slung over a broad shoulder, my chest bouncing against the taut muscle so that, even now, it’s tender to the touch. Among the twenty of us left in our group, I am the only one without some wound that requires me to rest. Some are worse than others.

If you watched people lying around, you could read their thoughts in their eyes, those pools of liquid ready to give up secrets normally buried deep: no one wanted to be the first to die, to think that perhaps they might be eaten by those that currently took care of them. It made martyrs of many, my father included. It’s not something he’d be proud of, if he was still here.

In the weeks that followed, we dug below the foundations of the bank, carving out a new world beneath the surface of our old one. We did without sun, our eyes now useless in light. We daren’t venture out now, for surely we would be killed almost instantly. We are biding our time. We know that soon what is left of the human race will have obliterated the resources of the planet and darkness will swoop upon us. How we can’t wait for that day to arrive. For then, we can retake what is rightfully ours.

Saturday mourning

2006-01-05T09:49:00.000Z

This is a continuation of a story that was started by Kat at her Reflections blog. A sequel was written by Chris at Spontaneous Fiction and then Raynwomaan put together chapter three. This is the next instalment. I hope you enjoy it.

Noel had been waiting for a while. Something bad had happened, but what? She felt helpless, which was a feeling almost alien to her. Slowly, the fog in her mind cleared and she remembered: Ms. Friday.

She felt around her head for the lump she knew was there; the shock she felt as her fingers grazed a thick clump of blood and hair was still evident as she brought her shaking hands back to her lap. Why did she feel this way? It was so unlike her to feel scared, unsure. Noel tried to summon the strength and wherewithal to work out where she was, how she’d got there and how she was going to break out.

Glancing around, there appeared to be little for her to work with. A small table was bolted to the concrete floor, as was the squat chair in which she sat. A window – more an aperture – was placed high up on the wall, its glass strengthened with wire to prevent escape. It seemed hopeless, even to Noel.

Voices, faint and indistinct, were just audible to Noel as she sat contemplating her next move. She felt her body for more wounds, finding none; however, neither did she have her weapons. The voices came closer and she recognised Ms. Friday’s nefarious tone barking instructions at some poor subordinate. Noel wondered to herself whether he was a looker. Guilt washed over her as she recalled the last man she’d disposed of; he’d been quite something. Noel let out a sigh of regret and buried her head in her hands.

Ms. Friday opened the door and saw Noel, bent over and wracked by sobs. So, she thought, they had broken her at last. Noel looked up through her lank hair just as Ms. Friday entered the room, a small man with glasses trailing in her wake.

"So, you’re awake now, are you?" Ms. Friday hissed. Noel ignored her, wiping the backs of her hands across her eyes to remove any trace of her tears.

"Well," Ms. Friday continued, "Dr. Scramton will access you now and then we will decide how you will die. Believe me, it won’t be a pleasant method I choose, pain is something you will almost certainly feel. There’s something about torture that makes me wet." Ms. Friday turned on her spiked heel, laughing. The echo of the door slamming filled the silence of the room.

Noel looked over Dr. Scramton. He wouldn’t be that difficult to overpower, surely? He stared at her through his thick glasses, the clipboard in his hand resting on his thigh.

"Hi, Nnnn-noel – ccccc-can I cccccc-call you Nnnnn-noel?" he stammered.

"Sure thing honey," she replied, giving him her best doe-eyed look. "So, you need to give me the once over, do you? Best get it over with honey, I ain’t got all day."

Dr. Scramton moved towards her, shuffling his feet across the concrete floor. He stopped just out of arm’s reach.

"C’mon Doc, you can’t check me over from there." Noel moved her legs slightly apart, giving the good doctor a glimpse of her red lace panties. She saw his eyes light up. Then, quickly she was on her feet, her hands around his throat. The light in his eyes dulled as his windpipe was crushed.

"I’m sorry, Doctor, but Saturday is not a day on which I choose to die. I prefer death to be a Friday. A Ms. Friday to exact."

She moved the dead weight of the doctor’s body into the corner and rifled through his pockets. On his person he had one comb, complete with grey hairs, a map of the compound and a small torch. Nevermind, thought Noel, I could use the excitement of having no weapons. After all, the past two days have been fairly boring.

With that, Noel slipped out of the room skulking down the gloomy corridors in search of her nemesis, Ms. Friday.

The story continues here

Counting on my friends

2006-01-03T17:03:00.000Z

I can count my friends on the fingers of one hand. I’m not unpopular; it’s just that I have a tendency to kill my friends. Not murder, you understand. It’s usually an accident that takes them away from me. I seem to invite bad luck into my life like some people invite trusted colleagues round for dinner parties – fairly regularly.

Consequently, word gets around and I find that friends soon become acquaintances and then distant acquaintances and soon enough they are strangers. Except they’re not.

They can’t act like real strangers, since they know about me; they know about my record with those that choose to get close to me. They know about the dark force that follows me around like a shadow. They become clairvoyant. They believe they can tell when death will come to collect them, to harvest them.

I am the bad apple in the barrel. It’s the drugs or it’s the voices; it’s the drink or it’s any number of vices that I have: drink driving, sword fighting while high on crystal meth, etc. The list goes on. Often I blackout and I don’t know what happens. The cops just shake their heads. There is no proof, no fingerprints: no evidence.

That’s why I’m writing to you. I’m looking for new friends.

Could that be you? Is it within the realms of possibility that someone can befriend me and not… I can’t bring myself to say it.

If you think you can help me, please write to me. Please come and visit. You’ll be perfectly safe here. I take care of visitors. It’s just that they don’t seem to take care of themselves.

The Twelve Days [Parody]

2005-12-28T09:29:00.000Z

On the first day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
A big bag of smelly weed

On the second day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

On the third day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Three acid trips
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

On the fourth day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Four lines of coke
Three acid trips
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

On the fifth day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Five rolled spliffs
Four lines of coke
Three acid trips
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

On the sixth day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Six wraps of crystal
Five rolled spliffs
Four lines of coke
Three acid trips
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

On the seventh day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Seven bombs of mushies
Six wraps of crystal
Five rolled spliffs
Four lines of coke
Three acid trips
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

On the eighth day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Eight lumps of hashish
Seven bombs of mushies
Six wraps of crystal
Five rolled spliffs
Four lines of coke
Three acid trips
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

On the ninth day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Nine hits of acid
Eight lumps of hashish
Seven bombs of mushies
Six wraps of crystal
Five rolled spliffs
Four lines of coke
Three acid trips
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

On the tenth day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Ten bags of speed
Nine hits of acid
Eight lumps of hashish
Seven bombs of mushies
Six wraps of crystal
Five rolled spliffs
Four lines of coke
Three acid trips
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

On the eleventh day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Eleven pipes of pot
Ten bags of speed
Nine hits of acid
Eight lumps of hashish
Seven bombs of mushies
Six wraps of crystal
Five rolled spliffs
Four lines of coke
Three acid trips
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

On the twelfth day of Christmas my dealer gave to me:
Twelve tabs of X
Eleven pipes of pot
Ten bags of speed
Nine hits of acid
Eight lumps of hashish
Seven bombs of mushies
Six wraps of crystal
Five rolled spliffs
Four lines of coke
Three acid trips
Two double doves
And a big bag of smelly weed

The twist in the tale

2005-12-21T09:59:00.000Z

All it takes is one quick twist and they snap. I am always surprised at how easy it is to break them, how simply the give up their heads. That satisfying snapping sound, that crack as my hands twist in one fluid movement.

Once that is done there is the beautiful sighing sound as they release their last breath. I could listen to that all day and never be bored.

I like to feel my grip tighten, to feel that slight burn as my fingers slip and my skin is rubbed raw. There is only that small amount of struggling, the minute amount of fighting back. It rarely lasts long before they succumb to the wrench of my two hands.

There have been times where I have not had the strength in my arms, my hands. A cloth wrapped around my hands seems to bring the urge to break, to sever. My eyes are bulging, the tendons in my hands are almost at the point of fracture and sweat breaks on my brow, but I don’t turn away from the job in hand. It must be done. I am thirsty for the feeling of satisfaction once the job is complete, once it lies broken in my hands.

It’s difficult to describe, but I know you’ve all felt the feeling at least once. Don’t deny it, we have evidence. As soon as we see red, we can’t help ourselves. Admit it. There is no need to feel remorse; the deed is done now, you can’t take it back. Ever.

Surely you know what I am speaking of, don't you?