By Your Own Blade.

This is a short story I have been working on for a while. The full thing is going to have three narrative strands, woven into one another, but for the time being this is the only complete one. Enjoy!

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Only a small percentage of people know what it is like to be truly hated. This is a privilege kept only for those special few people who do things people do not like. From the government to oil companies, bankers, drunk celebrities falling out of clubs. We do like a good witch-hunt.

For Max Req it was a day much like any other. The only difference was he had woken up this morning with a conscience. It was a shocking development in his life, and one he was not entirely ready for. Of course, it was an awkward scene: waking up in his Chelsea flat next to a prostitute he had hired for…well you understand the picture.  After twenty years of marriage and three kids, the sex became less and less existent, and Porsche, if that even was her real name, came from an agency known in certain circles for their discretion.

You see: Mr Req held a high position at a leading bank, which cannot be named for legal reasons, of course. You have probably used their services though, just saying. And like most bankers, he was universally hated right now, and rightly so this humble narrator thinks. So it goes without saying that his ‘servicing’ required a fair degree of hush-hush.

Like so many mornings, let the lady out, tell her he has an early business meeting, he hopes to see her soon (one of these things is true), shower, dress, breakfast, leave, say good mornings to the door man who lets him out onto the street, step straight into a car that is already waiting, driver already paid. The driver knows the route, taking back alleys to avoid traffic. Better than getting a taxi or pubic transport like those plebs, Max normally thinks to himself, but today he sits there in stony silence, reflecting on his life of late. He flicks through the paper. More wars, more murders, England still has not won anything worthwhile in international football championships and politicians are still lying.

“Stop here, please,” Max instructs the driver through the glass in between servant and businessman.

The black Mercedes stops outside a branch of his bank. Mr Req leaves the car and walks through the doors, moments after they have opened and strides with pride across the marble floor to the cashier.

“My dear, I would like to make a withdrawal,” he instructs the young lady behind the desk, with what he thinks is a nice balance of charm and authority. In reality, he sounds a little perverted and a little top heavy (if you know what I mean).

“Of course, sir. How much?”

“I would to withdraw £17 million if you would be so kind.”

The cashier is stunned by this request, as any body would. She says she needs to check with her supervisor, but Mr Req insists it is okay. He more or less runs this company.

“One more request. I would like to have this partially in coins, partially in notes.

So it came to pass that Mr Req left the building with £16.5 million in bank notes and half a million in pound coins. As one can imagine, this is a large sum and took two large duffel bags full of £50 notes. His car then took him over to Trafalgar Square, where he stood there handing out the £50 notes to passers by. Anybody who would care to approach him was showered with money. Pigeons stood nervously around him, approaching him and he would shoo them away, making way for more Regular Joes like you and I.

Several phone calls asking why he was not in the office. Several reporters approaching through the crowd like sharks at the smell of blood. He runs to his car to escape them, but the London traffic stops them. The driver bolts the door as the flash of cameras surrounds the car. “MR REQ, WHY YOUR RECENT DISPLAY OF GENEROSITY MR REQ, HOW DO YOU RESPOND TO ALLEGATIONS OF YOUR BANK INVESTING WITH OIL BARONS AND THE ARMS INDUSTRY” still ringing in his ears, in spite of the thick, dark glass.

“Going for some publicity, are we sir?” the driver sarcastically asks.

“Just keep on driving,” Max instructs, sweating heavily and biting his lip, “to London Bridge, please.”

All that remanded of Mr Req’s bonus from the fiscal year 2010-2011 was this half million in pound coins. London Bridge approached and Mr Req started to cry. He stuffed the money into his pockets, His jacket pockets, his suit pockets, his trouser pockets. The car pulled to a stop at the start of the bridge, pulling to the side of the road amidst a symphony of car horns.

“Some help here, please.” The driver comes round and sees what Mr Req is doing. “Here,” Max says, holding a wodge of £50 notes. Twenty of them, in total, “do me this one favour.”

Next to him sits a roll of black gaffer tape. This is then strapped around his ankles, holding his socks to the outside of his trousers, before he fills the legs of the trousers with more pound coins. They are bursting at the seams with the bulk of it. If any of you have see half a million pounds in coins, you would realise it is quite a sight.

The remaining coins stay in the duffel bag, now slung over his back as he struggles down the bridge. Pedestrians recognise him, one way or another. From either news headlines damning him and his profession for the cuts they took, from the companies they work for who were supported by the taxes of the people, or from the hour old headlines of him handing out £50 notes at a central London tourist hot spot.

He finally reaches the middle of the bridge, looking over to the deep of the Thames. With great ardour, he clambers up onto the railing, sweating, jangling and straining as he does so. And in a moment he is gone.

It was not as elegant as he planned. With one leg stepped off the edge, weighed down with metal, and he quickly plummeted downwards. It was 12:02 when he hit the grey-sky water. It was around 12:05 when he finally died.

He passed out and died peacefully after a minute or two of struggle, as the money anchored him to the bottom of the river, the water filling his lungs. A crowd gathered to see if he came back up.

A passerby claims to have heard his last words, but he refuses to tell the press for anything less than £100, 000. There have been reports of people planning to dive down to retrieve his dying fortune.

 

 

No Place

So this is a piece I have written for Cardiff Act One’s ‘Staging a Coup’ competition. Those taking part have to write a maximum fifteen minute long play, with fifteen seconds either side to clear and set up the stage. This is the second draft of said play, and feedback is greatly required. Once I have it in its final form, I am planning on turning it into a short play-novel type thing. Think A Streetcar Named Desire style, where a lot of information is given in the stage directions and such. In the mean time, enjoy!

Concept

No Place is set in a world after an event colloquially known as ‘The Revelation’ or’The Last Day’ roughly a year before the events of the play. This is when scientists unravel the last secret in the universe. While this is not an entirely realistic concept, it is left open to interpretation what they actually discover. In other words, it doesn’t matter. All I wanted to explore was the dichotomy between faith and science. Like a story such as The Road, I want to at least give a hint as to what happened without explaining it fully. Through the Radio broadcast at the start and Helen’s dialogue, we are treated to a hint of what has happened to the world. At the end of the day, it does not matter. The concept of the play is a simple philosophical debate between faith and science.

In terms of set, all I would need is a block for a bed side table, a radio (not hooked up to anything, just for dressing) and two chairs. All these can be brought on by the actors themselves.

Characters

Sheridan 
He is a hopeless romantic, someone who was truly happy living in blissful ignorance. The Revelation didn’t really affect him: only when Helen left him. Since then he has been searching for her, all across the country. He still lives in a world where concepts like love mean something. He is a man of faith, someone who is self reliant. He trusts his feelings and intuitions over empirical facts.

Helen
She is a bit of a mess, but all the same is a deep thinker. Is spontaneous, passionate but since the Last Day she has been troubled by what it meant for humanity. After leaving Sheridan, she wandered around the country for a while, taking in this new world in which she find herself. Always a free spirit who acts before thinking usually, she is unusually troubled by the Last Day.

Radio
This will just be a CD player hooked up to a set of speakers. One track will play the intro monologue which helps to set the scene of the play, while another will play “All Along the Watchtower” by Jimi Hendrix briefly at the end.

The Play

Stage is black. In the fifteen seconds while preparation of the stage is underway, the RADIO plays.

RADIO:

And now the news. Riots broke out again today across the nation as the remaining police forces went round houses across the UK rounding up eligible workers to man the abandoned factories that dot the country. This strike is not the first in the year since what we have come to know as ‘The Revelation’, when scientists in [STATIC] discovered the secrets to [STATIC]. There has been much talk about the effects of this on mankind, now that human science has mastery over nature. Since, apathy has swept the world. So, the Revelation…Call in with your thoughts. Where were you?

Lights fade on after fifteen seconds are up. The stage is a bare hotel room. One matress at the stage left, a chair at the foot of it, and a bedside table next to it, to the right, with a radio on. A chair sits next to the table. A girl, Helen lies on the floor (bed) staring at the ceiling and reading. Once the radio stops, she leans over to turn it down. There is a knock at the door, then another. She gets up and walks to stage right.

HELEN:

Who is it?

She looks through the lens and seems shocked, opening the door. Enter SHERIDAN.

Sheridan…how the….how did you find me?

He leans in to hug her, but she backs away.

SHERIDAN:

You know. Ways and means. Took me long enough though, Helen. Can I come in?

HELEN:

Yes..yes..of course. (In shock)

Helen goes and sits on one chair. Sheridan pulls out another chair from next to the bed side table and sits opposite her.

HELEN:

So how have you been?

SHERIDAN:

Worried. How the hell do you think I have been?

HELEN:

Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked

SHERIDAN:

You could have called. Something. We thought you were dead. Thrown yourself into the river or something. Was by chance someone I knew saw you around here. I’ve looked in every hotel and here I find you, holed up in this shit hole.

HELEN:

I can explain…

SHERIDAN:

Go on then. Enlighten me.

HELEN:

You remember the day I left?

SHERIDAN:

Like it was yesterday. Like it was so long ago.

HELEN:

It was a week after the Last Day.

SHERIDAN:

So? The world has gone to shit, but some of us stuck together. Was only the religious types that couldn’t handle the news and moved away. And they’re a minority now anyways. So very few true believers about now it would seem. (He says this offhandedly)

HELEN:

(interrupting him) Will you just shut up for a second? I left you because I knew truly what the Last Day meant. I knew we live in a world of science now. Of statistics, of chemicals of hormones. People aren’t people now, they are collections of data. Nature is dead, we killed it. We weren’t happy with not knowing, so we destroyed it.

SHERIDAN:

I don’t follow….

HELEN:

Don’t you see? The world we were born in has gone. Now there is only science. There is no place of art, no place for imagination. And most importantly, no place for love. Love. What even is that?

SHERIDAN:

What? What do you mean?

HELEN:

It bugged me for the longest time. But what we felt. What we both felt..it’s nothing more than hormones and chemicals, Sheridan. Delusions given to us by stories and advertising.

SHERIDAN:

No, no, no…it is more than that.

HELEN:

How then? How is love any different to God or any of the other things that we have disproved? Love and God are words from a world that is dead, and is never coming back.

SHERIDAN:

Then why am I here?

HELEN:

Delusion. Because you still think there is such a thing as love. You do not want to be alone, so you cling to those old world values for support.

SHERIDAN:

I know what I feel. You used to feel it too.

HELEN:

Don’t…

Sheridan pulls out his wallet and produces a very scuffed up envelope. From it slips out a folded up letter.
Sheridan, why are you doing this?

SHERIDAN:

He reads

“Dear Sheridan, I cannot wait to see you next. I can’t believe it’s been three months already! I’ll be waiting for you at the airport. Hopefully I’ll be able to take your mind off that jet lag. I miss you. I love you. (He pauses) When you’re gone, it’s like a pain in my chest. I close my eyes and see you. You’re always there, somehow. Let me know what you’ve been up to. Yours with love, Helen.

Helen is crying, her head in her hands. There is a moment of silence as Sheridan moves towards her and hugs her, kneeling beside her.

HELEN:

Sheridan

SHERIDAN:

Yeah?

HELEN:

Those words don’t mean anything now. That letter is a fossil from a time long gone.

SHERIDAN:

It’s only been a few years…

She stands up, walking away from him to stage right.

HELEN:

And everything has changed. I can’t…(she sobs) I can’t go back.

He follows her across the stage

SHERIDAN:

Sure you can

She pushes him away.

HELEN:

No, I can’t. Sheridan, when I left I had just found out I…I was late. I was pregnant.

SHERIDAN:

(Shocked) What did you mean ‘was’ pregnant?

HELEN:

(sobbing) I couldn’t bring a child into this world, Sheridan, I couldn’t.

SHERIDAN:

How could you? This is not the end!

Helen:

Easily. I’ve wandered, Sheridan. After I left you I drifted across the land and you know what I saw?

A pause

The worst. I saw a nation covered by the skeletons of buildings burnt to the ground. Abandoned houses, factories. I saw men and women drunk in the street in reckless abandon. I saw the riots in the streets as people were denied entry to churches, and the blood lust of people, no longer curbed by notions such as love, or compassion.

SHERIDAN:

I know. I saw on the news.

HELEN:

The world has ended, Sheridan, the fuse has finally burnt to its end and we are in the last days. Ever since we unlocked the human genome, or dropped the bomb, we’ve been on a slippery slope. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. But I had to. Can you imagine bringing a new life into this world? Drunks and murderers on the street, ash and fire on the horizon.

SHERIDAN:

For hope. For hope of a better tomorrow. We will rebuild. We’ll adapt to this new era we are in. That isn’t choice, that’s the hand we have.

HELEN:

(She laughs) It’s funny really.

SHERIDAN:

What is?

HELEN:

For so long, this curiosity drove us. We strove so long to get to this point, and for what? Now there is nothing else to be curious about, and we have totally reverted to our primal roots. We now have no grand illusion of enlightenment. There is nothing left to look for, because we have it all. And now we just want something to lose.

SHERIDAN:

If you don’t feel anything, then why did you cry when I read the letter?

HELEN:

I don’t know. A rush of hormones,

SHERIDAN:

No, it’s nostalgia. A pain in your stomach, in your heart. It’s a reminder of a place you can’t go back to. It doesn’t exist anymore. You can’t put that down to any combination of hormones or chemicals.

HELEN:

Why are you saying this? You say you still believe?

SHERIDAN:

I believe there is still mystery to life. Things to discover, things to see. There’s still some magic.

HELEN:

No! What is here isn’t love.

SHERIDAN:

Then what is it? Love? This is a new world now. Let’s make a new word for it.

HELEN:

What?

SHERIDAN:

I reject their notions of fact, I reject it all. I know what I feel and I know that it can’t be explained by science, not wholly. Models of things, numerical values attached to hints of real life, of the real world. Systems that repeat over and over again. You ever heard of the law of large numbers?

HELEN:

No?

SHERIDAN:

It says that a complex mathematical system can repeat itself over and over, thousands of times, but in the long run, something startling, something different might happen. All processes lead towards decay and distortion.

HELEN:

What are you trying to say?

SHERIDAN:

That I don’t care for it all. I know what I feel. Scientific systems fall apart. They aren’t right, they can’t be. Numbers don’t represent humans. Numbers can’t! They can’t see what goes on inside the heart, inside the head.

HELEN:

What do we do then?

SHERIDAN:

Like I said before. We make a new name for it all. We start again.

HELEN:

I’m scared, Sheridan

SHERIDAN:

My dear, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

He embraces her, and leans in to kiss her. She hugs him deeply, unsure as to what to do, before she slowly but tenderly kisses him. The radio starts up again.

RADIO:

And now time for an old one. This is ‘All Along the Watchtower’ by Jimi Hendrix.

The song plays as the stage fades to black, before itself fading after after “said the Joker to the Thief”

The End

 

End of Line

Something about a con-artist. This needs editing I think.

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In a town far away from home, you can be anyone you want to be, anyone you please.

I stretch my legs as we queue for immigration. The flight into JFK took six hour, from when it took off. Five hours of bad films and plastic food, another hour of ascent and descent. I am yet to meet anyone that actually likes flying. The usual question-answer dull conversation occurs at immigration, asking mundane questions in the hope I slip up and start to exhibit guilt. All the same, I feel the guiltiest man alive. Stamp stamp and I am in. “Have a good day, sir” in that overly polite, crystal clear American tone.

There is the usual hustle in Arrivals funnelling people through into the outside world. People book cabs, renting cars or shuttles, the lot. On a far end there stands a line of men holding signs with names on in large, clear letters. I choose one at random.

Today, ladies and gentleman, I am Donald Sawyer. Sorry, Mister Donald Sawyer. I throw away my passport, my only tie to my earlier life.

So it turns out I own a nice attic flat on the East Side. How convenient. Better than all of those fake grand hotels with bellhops and porters constantly demanding tips. The driver was kind enough to remind me where my spare keys were kept. Kind man. I top him fifty bucks and tip the doorman of my building the same.

To a lot of people, money never lies.

I pour myself a scotch on the rocks and start to find out whom I am. Even though this apartment is not mine, I cannot help but feel at home. Seems I am a well of advertising director for a pretty reputable firm. Not quite as low key as I had hoped. Pays the bills, and them some. No debt. No enemies. My journal says clients buy me lunch and dinner regularly, that I rarely go into work and I seem to spend most of my time convincing clients that my agency is the one for them. I do not have a wife or fiancé, which means slightly less baggage, though I am seeing a beautiful girl who may or may not be a model. Either way, the pictures on my desktop suggest she has not much dignity.

The phone rings an hour or two after I arrive. “Mr Sawyer, there is a man here claiming to be you. Of course, this is ridiculous. Do you want me to inform the police?” the receptionist speaks down the phone, her phone smooth as sweetener. The police are called. I watch from my window on the fifth floor as he is dragged away. Should buy some more time. I find myself fascinated by the window, caught between staring through the glass to the cold city outside, and trying to catch the half reflection of myself. I do not even know what to look for anymore. Even I cannot see myself clearly.

She drops by, the model, and we fuck. Through out she tells me she loves me, and after she asks me for four hundred dollars for a taxi home. I get the score, hand her the bills and send her on her way. Some taxi fare. I am no fool. I leave the flat in the morning into the monster that is a rainy New York City, into a crowd of black umbrellas, and disappear into the day. Perhaps never to return. At least for a time I am away from all the drama on the far side of the Pond, blood on my hands and a noose of lies around my neck.

I was always told I could be anything I wanted to be.

 

Turn on the Bright Lights

The stage lights up like a slab of white crystal, protruding far into the centre of the crowd. The crowd has disappeared into darkness as the lights fade to black, accentuating the flashes of photojournalists and kids with their smart phones taking snaps. The air was filled with the snap-snap and blink-blink, nearly saturated with excitement, filled with the excited screams and cheers of the audience. Tonight the world would be seeing the new collection from Valerie Glamour for the very first time.

The music starts, a low and mystic sound, setting the scene as the back stage is lit up light blue. The first model hits the stage and the music picks up, a beautiful soundscape. She walks in time with the bass, as if every step she takes shakes the earth. The exquisite black dress hugs her luscious curves, showing them off in the way only a pro would know how. Strutting to the centre of the stage, she poses, the cameras crowding around her. She stares blindly into the distance, the Never does an expression touch her face. Like a work of art, she stands there, petrified so that she might live forever in photo. The lights reflect off the silver jewellery around, blinding some members of the crowd. Turning off, she returns backstage, and another female model takes her place. Then another male model, dressed in this year’s style. He looks like a drag queen.

And then the final exhibit, the man called the modern day Adonis. Perfection. Daniel Green takes to the stage. The crowd goes wild. Cameras and flashes capture the exception sight of him in just jeans and a crisp white shirt. He reached the end of the stage, and as a final stage piece, ripped off his shirt, , showing off his carved and oiled chest . The flashes and subsequent shadows serve to emphasis the already well-defined shape of his body, and shine his white teeth as he grinned into the crowd.

The cameras did not quite capture the missing or cracked teeth, or the stain of brown. They failed to see the stretch marks and the lose skin that hung off the skeleton of a man, or the cuts all over his face from shaving drunk that morning. Neither did the cameras catch the shape of his matted hair that he tried to hard to style every morning. The next issues of the world’s fashion magazines will feature him on the cover, and overnight bloggers will upload pictures and articles before breakfast. None will capture the depravity and emptiness of the man. The pictures do not see the needle marks, or the hole where the bridge of his nose used to be, worn away from drug use. On his arm was an infected needle wound, right out of that film, all purple and black. He looked in pain, moving the arm awkwardly.

Turning to walk back and return backstage, his leg gave way, bone snapping as he falls down. The audience see him posing on his side, pandering to the cameras by the stage, one leg bent up, as he lies looking seductively into the eyes of the cameras.The stage had met his face with considerable force, the Perspex that formed the surface breaking leading his face to crash into the strip lights beneath. He was barely conscience by this point, his mind recoiling at the horror of his situation, blood dripping into his eye from his forehead, the smell of burning flesh permeated the air as the hot strip light burnt away at his cheek. Tears rolled down this scarred cheek, dripping down on to the light, evaporating with a sizzling sound and diffusing into the air. T

he neon stage snaps off, as stage hands come to pick up left clothes, and give the stage a quick clean before the next batch of models hit the stage. They lift Green off stage. “Good show” they says, “nice improv, the press loved that posing at the end. Some great shots!”

They do not know whose blood is on the stage. He had never imagined it would be like this.

 

This and That

Credit cards, debit cards, crinkled receipts kept in case of dissatisfaction and returns, one play slip, donor card, good brand of condom, drivers license, library card, an unflattering black and white passport photo an unhappy look, all enclosed in brown leather, complete with that distinct smell of authenticity, all under an embossed metal logo, where the real monetary value of this simple object lies.

Now I sit on my bed, the contents spread over the red covers as I scan from object to object and I wonder what the kind of person owns this. A personality, a series of snapshots, bank details, and phone numbers, bric-a-brac, all scattered on my bed. I sit there waiting for the imminent collapse of my personality, waiting for someone to break me down into pieces of plastic, Internet histories, credit card bills, the food and things I buy.

I found the wallet on the pavement; smack bang next to a large puddle with some spilt and wet chips floating in the dirty water. This was not normally the way I walk home but on a whim I decided to live the life less ordinary. Fate. That is what some people would call this. I was drawn to this wallet. This all happened for a reason. Now the wallet is dry, and the leather feels smooth and warm under my cold hands. The window blows through the curtains, knocking the wind chime hanging from the curtain rail. My one bedroom flat is cool this time of year. I find myself wondering what fine specimen of a person owns this, what pinnacle of evolution and genetics, filled this with themselves, then lost it. Did they lose themselves? Was their life forever changed? How many phone calls? Police, credit cards companies…

Their picture stares up at me and I find myself slowly imagining their lips on mine after a nigh in a fine restaurant, all paid for by one of these fine pieces of plastic. I imagine slipping the condom on, I imagine me imagining the moment of release. I imagine taking a drag on a shared cigarette between their seductive lips and mine. Find this person, I am thinking, first date in a small café I’m thinking, together forever with no wedding I am thinking. That is how I am meant to react isn’t it? You find attributes of someone attractive and your mind wanders. Thoughts snowball but sometimes mine feel like tumbleweed, and fuck me this desert is lonely.

Slowly I put everything back in the wallet, feeling a little dirty, a little strange at that timeline in my mind, formed from fragments of someone I do not really know. Someone who I feel I want to know. A set of cards, trinkets and a phone number. Maybe someone I can love. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe I repeat to myself until the word starts to sound strange.

A few seconds suspense before the phone begins to dial. One, two, three tones, along with the fragmented sound of my own breathing. “Hello” a gruff voice, “who’s speaking?” He sounds like a drinker, a smoker. He sounds older than I expected. But hey, a girl can dream.

 

Heart of Gold

Antonia is facing down the street, looking towards the distant mountains and past the Station Hotel. Two men, a bartender and a waiter, are sharing a cigarette they bummed from a passing workmen, and they suck back delicious smoke as a child and his father sit on the other side of the main entrance, talking about buying ice cream. The air is filled with laughter and the sounds of passers by, all heading to the station as the three fifty heads into town. Men and women on days off adorn roadside cafés, sipping on whiskey, white wine or coke, nibbling on warm ciabatta with melted garlic butter.

Another child is being dragged home, tears in his eyes. Antonia catches a glimpse from the boy’s red eyes, and knows immediately that he is going to be beaten. Probably for bad grades or something, but he has that scared look in this eyes. One of inevitable pain and punishment.

She turns to Marco, falling into his arms. At last she is his, and her former life dies behind her. The smell of his cologne intoxicates her. It smells of freedom, of the future. She used to wear perfume similar to this, to avoid implicating her clients, and getting them into trouble with their partners. Marco admires the hotel, his hotel, and his life’s work.

With a crash of glass, a wastepaper bin flies from a third floor window, landing on the brick red of the pavement, flaming bank notes inside, spreading and landing all over the pavement.

“Ay dios mio” someone screams, people rising from their lunches to stand and watch the burning bin, now in full flame, bank notes burning like scattered ashes all in the street. At first, a little smoke comes from the broken window, then more and more until it billows into the sky like a dark stairway.

Marco shouts to the waiter and bartender to get inside and help put out the fire, before turning on his heels. She grabs him, kissing him on the lips, half in terror of something bad happening. He whispers everything is going to be okay, turns and runs away to the fire station. Antonia stretches her arm out as he goes, almost used to his warmth and now it is gone. The fire now has taken over the entire building. The little boy outside dropped his ice cream, and it melts into the gutter, staining the dusty red pavement.

“Todo por mi culpa” she whispers to herself as the train pulls out of town, and the roof of the hotel collapses in on itself.

 

She had a heart of gold, really she did, but what she wanted most was a Midas touch

 

 

Naive

A childhood game, gone wrong. Under-edited at the moment.

————————————-

I remember the crack as his head hit the ground, our shouts ringing in the snow silence, spreading like the mist we breathed in the cold.

It started with throwing snowballs, just the four of us, on an iced over road near my house. It was not used often. I would later learn that it was a supply road for a bar in the rugby club nearby. Our only light was from the distant main road, with the red and white of passing cars. Those bold enough to brave the slippery roads, alongside the occasional blue of emergency services. “Probably ambulances” we speculated. Only our cries of laughter and conversation could be heard.

My hands were red-raw-cold, putting the finishing touches towards a snowman we made earlier. He has one of our hats, not sure whose. I was smoothing down part of his head, trying to get that picture perfect thing you see on Christmas cards and in musical films. A cold block hits the side of my face and I spin with the impact, finding myself facing down towards the main road. I touch my face, checking for blood. Ice in the snowball, I think, but there is nothing.

Shadows grow from the main road, a group of figures, silhouetted against the orange of the streetlights. Each was taller than us. My friends moved closer together. Safety in numbers.

“Eh, boys?” one of the figures shouted, “mind if we join?” All spoken in a fake London accent. Kids from the Northwall Estate. Rough part of the neighbourhood.

“Sure” one of us replied, all of us surprised they have not just come to beat us up. That they are so calm. I am not sure who answered, but before long the nine of us are dodging and dipping between blocks of snow. For the first time, we are interacting on a level where threats and egos are not involved. “Maybe this is what growing up feels like”, I remember thinking, “past all that childish scrapping.”

It is only five minutes before it all went wrong.  One of the Northwall boys was bent over, blood coming from his nose. In his hand, on the floor, was something. A block of ice.

“Tha’s fucking ice!” holding it in the air. It wasn’t big, but it shone with hardness. Finger prints of bloody red tainted the clear white.

One of our lot threw it. He was apologising, saying he had no idea, that it was an accident, but it was only seconds before the Northwall boy’s first collided with his face and he was on the floor, his nose also bloody. That crack, I will never forget.

Both sides were tense, ready for something to happen. The Northwall boys were crowded around the boy with the bloody nose. We had picked up our boy from the floor as he clutched his nose. Was bent. Looked like it might be broken. We knew more was to come, so we ran.

We ran.

They chased us.

The icy air in my lungs burning.

The pain in my side as a stitch came about.

Looking back now at these flashes, these stupid childhood moments, I cannot help but laugh at my naivety, but it is nice to see that one day we would all just get along.

 

Lay Down Your Burdens

A happy piece about guilt. This is a reworked piece from ages ago.

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Lay Down Your Burdens

The sunset paints the sky crimson across the dusty plain. Sinking towards the ground, the waning light bends the long shadows of the trees and lampposts, extending and warping them like Pinocchio’s nose. They stretch until night comes.

The whiskey by her side tastes awful, but she is not sure if that’s just her taste, or if the whiskey really is that bad. She takes a sip. It burns, but she forces it down, feeling it in her stomach, warming it up. The chair on the veranda rocks back and forth again and she goes with it, crossing her legs and letting her body sway. Her hair blows in the evening wind. She closes her eyes and imagines she is on a swing. One that her dad would have pushed her on when she was young, but it’s been so long since she saw him.

The wind picks up, catching the iron-gate and making it to creak. They need to buy some oil, but never do. Much more pressing things to buy. The last time they went shopping it looked like the most random assortment of items: various flavours of ice cream, energy drinks, bottled water (lots of water), mild painkillers, stronger painkillers, vitamins, several cans of soup, and cheap alcohol. The cashier gave them the strangest look.

Inside the house he screams and moans. He’s been like this for days. She went through it all a few days ago, her body a dictionary of scars and wounds. They are scattered across her body like fairy dust, settling at random points and glistening, deadly and telling.

The first time was painful; the needle poised centimetres from her flesh. It was not like the films, or the books. She had not been pressured into it, she wanted to try something new and different. It was her idea. Life was dull. They were bored so they fell into something darker than your regular addiction. And a few years, from this hole they had been watching their world fall apart. The powder bubbled and spat in the spoon. Then it was ready. Soaked into a cotton bud, sucked up into the syringe, now touching her vein, inside her vein, sucking blood out into the syringe, a dragon or supernova floating, pulsating in the syringe. She said she was ready, and he plunged down, sending the poison into her. She was crying, but then the warmth and euphoria hit her. Moments later she was sick.

Touching the scars on her arms and legs, she is scared at how routine all that had become. These scars that would never go away. How easy she had ruined her life on a day-to-day basis, but also how boring life became. She had dreams once. After that, she had need, and life itself became dull. She went through it all. He watched and through her pain she could see his terror; he would have to go through this soon. He held her hand as she threw up and spasmed, doubled up in pain. No, not pain. Her body was just learning to feel again. Nerves long dead and drugged at the tips of her body came back to life. She curled her toes in agony, just feeling again.

She remembered the first time they made love, before the drugs. Her hands pressing against his back as he moved in her. The gasps. Him on her lips. His lips all over her curves. Her toes curled up as she saw the beautiful colours every woman deserves to see, but many do not. That amazing rush. She bit her lip as the wave hit her.

Oh he loved her so much, and she loved him too, but that was then. This was before the drugs. Now she could not bear to see him in this state. They had been through too much. She imagined the interior of their bare flat, naked from where everything of value had been sold off to pay for other habits. She imagined the space behind the door, under the letterbox. So many letters. So many how-are-yous, where-are-yous, what-are-you-doings. She thought about running again. This time alone. She had come this far.

She takes another sip of whiskey, savouring the taste, and stares into the sunset. She smiles.
She takes another sip and lets the ashen taste float on her taste buds for the first time in so long. It’s the little things, after all. Sometimes it’s nice to take a break from all your worries.

 

Red

So my life has gone back to the normal university thing where I seem to be tired all the damn time. This does mean I will be writing more. Might even post a segment from my novel, if I get much more written in the near future.

Speaking of writers, check out this blog. Her name is Rosianna, and she’s already a bigish deal on You Tube (and you should follow her, very good channel) but she also does a blog. Check it out

Meanwhile, here is aice little piece from Creative Writing. Enjoy x

In mid air, at the centre of the room, the glass, seconds before impact on the clean floor tiles. The last chord, B sharp minor resonates and pulses slowly and the crooning voice of the singer fades into silence. A burning cigarette in my mouth, but I was not breathing in, and it continues to burn-burn-burn like some awful fuse, dripping ash onto the floor. Those five words hung in the air like a gas, like carbon monoxide that slowly and without and warning or odour kills everyone in the room. That ugly elephant that was in the room is now visible for all to see, but now we can ignore it no longer.

The guest all gasp as the words take full effect and the wine glass finally hits the floor, sending red and clear shards in each and every direction. The band remains still, sitting poised to play the next note, while the last hangs in the air, their silence allowing this scene to play out as it does.

The white dress is now stained with specks of red around the bottom and a piercing shriek. Never to be worn again, but now stained permanently, the white dress looks sullied, much worse than it actually is. The red would come out, if you took it to the right people. Tears hit the floor in slow motion, starting as a circular drop, hitting the floor and flattening out, the outsides rising in a strange and unique shape.

His words feel as though they left his mouth a long time ago, the silence folding the real timeline, though the words still hang in the air like a speech bubble in a comic book. His tongue is caught between his teeth, not regretting, but scared of the repercussions. These words about love and are met with shouts, all concerning money and respect, her father taking a step forward, striking the young man with a blow to the face, blood bubbling up under the skin of his cheek that he would later notice, staring into the mirror of his hotel bathroom. Blood hits the floor as a tooth snaps cutting the inside of his tongue, blood flowing over his teeth as he shouts at his attacker. More red hits the floors, but by now this is no surprise, the pool trapped underfoot as he turns to leave.

The father is pulled off, and somebody throws over a napkin to the bleeding man, the man who everybody in the room knows. He looks over to the bride, and everybody knows what the look means. She once again kneels down to see if her new groom is okay, but he pushes her away.

“I can’t believe I was the only one who didn’t know!”

A plain silver ring hits the floor Moments later, a waiter is on hand to clear up the mess, the glass, blood and wine.

 

Meditations on a Street Corner

So I haven’t posted in forever. This would be due to my being hugely busy, and just too tired and dazed to really get down to writing. I am, however, currently putting to finishing touches to the plan for a novel I am hoping to finish by the end of summer. The first three thousand words are done, and some of this has appeared on here before.

But anyways. Here is a little something, inspired by my re-reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Cracking book if you have not read it yet. I wanted to achieve that sort of semi-detail that Kundera is great at. Giving us characters with a degree of depth. Speaking of which, this is not the same Franz as is in Being, I just picked that name because it sounds different. This is a first draft, I just wanted to get something out there and posted. As always, comments are greatly appreciated.

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Franz arrived early, just in case she had the same mind set. It was a early on a slightly chilly evening in spring. Not so cold that his own breathe was visible, but cold enough to put a shiver into you when there was a gust of wind. So there he stood, on a street corner in a okay part of town, flowers in one hand, the other hand in his pocket to keep it from the cool air.

He arrived early because he was old fashioned. He believed in chivalry and the like, held doors open for women he passed in corridors at work, gave compliments, but nothing that was overly flirtatious or sexual. Was never too forward on first dates, and only would place his hand on the leg of a female after they had kissed and he knew that he was not being too forward: that she wanted his hand to be there. This meant he never took any risks, really,  too scared of being seen the same way most men were. Perverts. Only after sex. Seeing women as objects, rather than subjects in themselves. This meant his love life was sparse, but the ones that liked him stuck about. He was a good catch, and a good guy.

It had been fifteen minutes since he arrived five minutes early at the street corner. During this time, he had been trying to find a pose, a means of standing up that made him look cool. He wanted to make an impression. This was informed by an upbringing of watching James Dean films and reading poetry by Byron. Not that he was the brooding, dark hero, more he liked to take shades from the sketch of the Byronic hero. Distant, cool and calm. Reserved, but not so much no-one bothered with him. More the quiet hero with lots to say. A lit cigarette sat on his bottom lip, and he casually breathed in smoke like it was nothing. Like it was the 1950s and smoking was still cool, which is when he was approached by a gentleman.

“Do you know what year it is?” he asked. This is the first thing that Franz registered about the man, before he even saw him. He was too busy staring at a window with an open curtain, behind which stood a lady, topless and painting something on a canvas to the side of the window. No body had noticed, and Franz did not mind the view. “Excuse me?” the stranger enquired again, abruptly bringing Franz back  to reality.

“Um…it’s two thousand and eleven. Why? Time traveller?”

“No, just remarking on you. You’re standing there, acting far cooler than you actually are. Smoking and leaning there like you’re some fucking beatnik.” Franz was a bit taken aback by this. Modern social protocol advised against actually talking to your fellow man, and as such he was not in the habit of experiencing strangers psychoanalysing him on the street.  “Trying to impress some girl?  For starters, you haven’t considered the very likely possibility that smoking won’t appeal to her.”

It was true. In his rush to appear cool, and as a result, gain her social approval, Franz had not considered his place in time and space to it’s full extent. People like James Dean look cool in black and white photos from fifty years ago, but times have a-changed, as some singer said from years back in a song that occasionally appears in movies.

“Shi…good point. Thanks..I think..” He reached for the white stick and went to throw it to the floor, before planning on stamping out the smoke.

“Ah, if you don’t mind…” and with a gesture of his hand, beckoning for the cigarette, the stranger took the cigarette from Franz’s limp hand, and before he could really say anything, the stranger was lost to the crowded street. Probably taking a tentative drag on Franz’s now long lost cigarette. He hoped the stranger choked on it, but soon remembered the point he had made. Quick, gum. Fumble one out of the packet in his pocket. Cover up the smell of poison. Think of excuses. Bonfire? Street fire? Passive smoke? Would have to go with that, if she even asked.

Who was she? This girl, this person he had made all these plans for in the back of his mind that he was yet to meet. A true blind date, not even a set up. In five minutes, he would be meeting, apparently, the girl of his dreams. Rumour had it she was funny, cute and had a soft spot for the sweet guys like him, according to the middleman. With this in mind, he was not even sure how he considered the bad boy smoking look would do him any favours.

A business man came to stand next him, a copy of The Times in his hand that he confidentially opened loudly next to Franz. Several moments of silence passed, making this interaction far past the threshold of non-awkward social interaction.

“Say, do you have the time at all?” he said in a smooth voice. The self-assured arrogant voice of a man in an expensive suit.

“Uh…about half past six?”

“About? How about?” the man replied in a tense voice. He had plans, places to be. Stress and high blood pressure. Franz was once again taken back by this interaction. There must be something in the air he told himself.

“Twenty five minutes past, to be exact” he replied with a slightly raised nose to indicate his indignation.

“Ah, thanks…uh..” he reached out his hand to Franz, to shake his, waiting for Franz to tell him his name”

“..Franz” he replied, taking the man’s hand in a reserved fashion.

“Franz, would you care to join me for a smoke?”

Quietly laughing at the irony of this situation, Franz politely declined, but the man lit one up himself anyways, and after taking a deep breathe asked what Franz was doing, waiting on a street corner. He replied he was waiting on a dinner date.

“Ah, and pray tell, what time are you meeting this lady? It is a lady right..? You never can tell these days” to which Franz awkwardly assured him that his date was in fact a woman. “Hmm..and you are meeting her soon…half six I am guessing? Seems like a nice round time. Well why are you here early?” and before Franz could explain, “You should be five minutes late to an appointment. Keep them waiting, keep them keen!”

“I’m not that kind of guy. Why not be early?”

“Because it shows you are too keen! If you show up early, you are just another guy trying to impress her with your chivalric values. If you show up late, you are the guy whose approval she will seek. She will try extra hard to impress you, trust me!”

Advice like this, Franz had heard before, and had taken with a pinch of salt. He would never try it though.

“See, I would never try these games on a girl that I actually like. This ‘be mean, keep them keen thing’. It’s a risk I wouldn’t want to take. Each to their own though”

“Ha, I suppose so” the businessman replied, stubbing out his cigarette on the building, “well, good luck, Franz” and with a firm handshake, he was gone.

Franz felt like a boy again, dipping his feet into a river. He remembered as child standing on the shore of a river near his grandparent’s house in the Lake District and watching as flotsam and jetsom washed up onto the shore, bits and pieces getting stuck in the pebbles there, before washing back off again into the current. He remembered a beautiful red boat passing once, with lucious sails and beautifully painted details. He remembered wanting to swim out and go off on many adventures, but he was too young and small to make it.

It was with this dreamy, vague stare into the distance that she found him.