The Book

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

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

I'll come back and kiss you.

Love's Blind

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

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

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

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.

1. Why did you apply?


2. Where do you see yourself in 10 years?


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


4. Three words to describe yourself


5. 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

1. 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.



2. 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.



3. 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.



4. 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.



5. 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

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

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

Life slips by quickly
There is barely time to stop
And think. Don’t you feel?

Bus Ride

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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]

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

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?

The Box

It is essential to this story that you understand we can only surmise what happened on 24 August 2005. As no one else was present, these details are taken from accounts presented by neighbours and associates, the diary of the deceased, as well as police reports and forensic evidence. However, we could also say: we may never know.

22 August 2005
It had been a long day, a day of humping boxes from my parents’ house to my new apartment. I was tired and my limbs were aching; I felt as if I’d spent half the day being beaten by strong men. I needed to sink into my comfy new couch and sip a glass of red wine, right away. The unpacking could wait.

I lit some candles and sat back to watch the flickering shadows dance across the room’s white-washed walls. Life was getting to be good. The red wine flowed and I felt the exhaustion of the day’s events take over. Soon I fell asleep, curled around a cushion.

23 August 2005
I was woken by the sun rising over the apartments opposite. I hadn’t yet got around to installing my blinds so the window let in the glare of the early morning sunshine. I squinted my eyes against the brightness, rubbed at the crick in my neck from where I’d slept awkwardly on the couch.

Surveying the room, I realised that I had a task ahead of me in clearing the many boxes stacked around the walls, some piles going back four boxes deep. With a sigh I pulled my aching body to its feet and began methodically sorting the boxes according to which room the various contents belonged. I stopped briefly to eat some breakfast, but chose not to get dressed or washed up until I’d moved each of the boxes to the correct room; the job of sorting them could come later.

This first job didn’t take long, as I’d had enough foresight to write the final resting place on the upper flap of each box. I tried to ignore the fact that I was, slowly but surely, turning into my mother. Somehow, I’d kidded myself that I wouldn’t, but no matter how much I tried to forge my own way I was still following in her footsteps. Shaking my head, I rose to my feet and began the arduous task of unpacking each box, of finding a place for everything in my new home.

It was dark before I’d finished unpacking. I took a shower, ate a small meal of scrambled eggs on toast and crashed out on the couch with another bottle of wine for company. Within minutes I was asleep again.

24 August 2005
This morning I was woken again by the first hint of the sun’s rays glinting through my window. I was determined to get some blinds up to shield me from these rude awakenings; it was my first task for the day, I had decided. After the weekend, I needed to get back to work – the mortgage wasn’t going to pay itself, as my father was fond of saying.

The cardboard boxes were piled up against the far wall, waiting for me to take them to the communal rubbish chute. I cursed as I realised I would need to rid the room of all detritus before I began to hang my screens. I manhandled the cardboard boxes out of my apartment and dragged them unceremoniously across the landing to the chute opening that led to the communal rubbish area housed beneath the building. I opened the flap to the chute and immediately my nose was bombarded by the stench of rotting food. I gagged slightly as I tipped in my own rubbish, finally letting the flap clang shut so I could breathe the sweeter air again.

No sooner had I shut the door when I spotted a lone box out of the corner of my eye. I could have sworn it wasn’t there but five minutes ago, that it had materialised as soon as my back was turned. I called out to see if anyone was in the apartment – I had after all given a key to my parents so that they could satisfy their own curiosity that I wasn’t living in a crack den or prostituting myself in order to pay the rental charges. No one answered my voice. I made a quick tour of the apartment, mostly to convince my own brain that I was alone, that no one had snuck in behind me and was waiting, sharpened knife in hand, to slice me up.

I looked again at the box. It had nothing written on the top or the sides that faced me. It had no branding printed on it, no postmark. It was blank on all sides. A thin line of brown parcel tape held the flaps down. How it had got there I had no idea. Approaching with caution, I took my time in bending down to pick it up. I shook it carefully, but it gave me no indication of what was inside. I knew it had something in it, as I could feel the weight of something, of whatever secret this box held. My heart was beating faster than it would after a workout; throat dry and legs that quivered I carried the box over to the small table I’d rescued from a thrift store two weeks’ previously. I backed away, deciding to leave the box for a day or two until I knew my interest would be piqued to such an extent that I would rip it open and discover its contents.

But, I couldn’t leave it alone. I needed to know what was contained within this cardboard shell. I thought about whether there was something I was missing, something that I hadn’t yet unpacked and put away in its designated place. I could think of nothing. I had this feeling that the box was urging me to open it, that somehow it had command of my body, my mind. It seems stupid to say that, but that’s how it felt.

Again, I approached the box with caution. There seems no reason for this unnerving feeling, but it’s as constant as my breath or my pulse. I watched, detached, as my hands grasped the box, a nail slipping under the tape that held it closed. I pulled up a corner and drew back the tape, my hands trembling as I pulled apart the top flaps of cardboard.

The top was open; I was able to look right in. Nervously, I stepped back, expecting some horror to explode from the box. Nothing happened. The clock I had mounted earlier clicked through each second. I held my breath. The urge took me again and I stepped forward, my face looking directly into the box.

Nothing prepared me for what I saw, the horror of it. I felt the sickness rising from my stomach, burning my throat. My legs gave way and I vomited on the floor.

It was out and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it, to prevent the inevitable disaster.

Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?

Holding breath

Long shadows fell over the airstrip. We were all craning our necks, searching the clouds for the silhouette of the aeroplane. I swear everyone held their breath at that moment, no one daring to breathe in case it had an effect on Davy and Jeremy.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let me backtrack slightly.

I’m Marianne. I’ve been married to Davy for a day; actually, it’s less than 24 hours. I didn’t want him to go up in the damn plane. I told him so, too. He chose not to listen.

“Honey, what could possibly go wrong?” he’d said.

It’s not as if I could simply list them out, ticking them off on my fingers as I went. Some of them he would have dismissed instantly, others he would have laughed at; some may have made him stop and think, but still he would have buried any fears and stepped on that plane, even if I’d lay on the ground and begged him to not to. Like I say, we’d only been married a short while.

We met while on a cruise of the South Pacific. That was back in 2001. We dated for the intervening years, bought a house, kept some pets (only the dog is left) and generally lived like we all do. Life got on with itself and we travelled along with it by clinging on to the coat tails of time. Now, I had the feeling it was going to shake us off and we’d land with a big bump.

This was going to be more than cuts and bruises.

There were cries from the others that stood around me, encircling me as if they could possibly protect me from… not sure what they thought I needed protecting from. I held my hand to my face, shielding my eyes from the low winter sun. The plane was twirling as it came towards the ground; I could hear the whine of the engines above the rustle of the wind in the trees and the gasps of the other spectators.

I instinctively looked away, pointing my gaze to the ground. I noticed things in those last seconds: bugs crawling through the grass, each separate blade an entire eco-system; I saw each granule of dirt, the tiny droplets of water clinging to the grains’ surface and the bacteria performing the front crawl in these bubbles of liquid.

I almost didn’t dare look back up. I forced myself to lift my eyes. At that point I saw Davy and Jeremy’s plane disappear behind the screen of trees that stood in the distance.

We all waited for the explosion, the flames and the column of smoke that is inevitable in these situations.

All I could think was: breathebreathebreathe.