Short Story

This is a short story as I understand it. It conforms to both of the pre-requisites of a short story.

Francis Sandwich was a soft man. He was soft in many senses – as most humans are, he was made of squishy, fragile flesh and he was soft of brain. This meant that whilst many men are courageous and strong-willed, he was cowardly and easily persuaded.

One day Francis was walking through his home town, past the bus station. He lived in a small coastal town where nothing much happened, as such people had to invent happenings and over-emphasize the small things that did happen. A seagull died – it was a plague! Whilst Francis walked past the bus station a loud noise happened. A noise is a certain type of wave, these waves are picked up by the human ear and interpreted by the brain. There are many types of these waves but some can sound remarkably similar. This noise was a bang – a loud bang, it worried animals and people alike. It worried Francis particularly who’d always had weak nerves anyway. He thought that it was a terrorist, which was a thing he’d heard a lot about. A terrorist was a human being who looked different to him and didn’t like him. Terrorists made bangs. Most of those around Francis had noticed that it wasn’t a terrorist it was a tyre that had died. This didn’t stop a young boy taking note of Francis’ fear and shouting at him:

“Run to your shelter, granddad!” Granddad was a term of endearment or abuse.

Being a fragile man Francis was frightened. He ran home and found himself a large cardboard box and some sellotape. He climbed inside and closed the lid. He then set about sealing himself inside. He slept. He slept for a long time.


DISCLAIMER: I am aware that whilst this is both short and a story it does nothing else that a short story should. You'd probably already noticed that was the point. I am rather tiresome aren't I?

Narrative Omnipotence - a half-arsed and ill-informed 'study'

Howard fell asleep on the Northern Line. This, in itself, is not particularly out of the ordinary; people have fallen asleep on tube trains before and doubtless will again. His experience however was altogether different. Most people wake up in Morden or Edgware covered in embarrassment or sick or whatever. Howard woke up somewhere else.

The sky had been dark, like night – because it was night. The air had been thick and clammy not unlike that of summer – incidentally it was summer. It was a standard summer night. Howard boarded the last train to Morden. Having enjoyed himself a little too much earlier in the evening, Howard’s plans of disembarking at Tottenham Court Road were scuppered when sleep caught him unaware at Camden.

Howard woke up in hell. Remarkably, he noted, hell smells similar to tube trains. All around him were great pillars of jagged rock Rivers of molten lava flowed across the cracked and horrid ground. Howard took a few cautious steps and snapped a ribcage underfoot. A skull resting on the floor a few metres away fired a barrage of curses at him.

As he continued to take stock of his surroundings Howard noticed more and more figures around him. All of them were haggard with a thousand yard stare of inestimable torment lurking beneath the surface. One figure was shambling towards him more purposefully. As it hobbled closer Howard got a better glimpse of its face behind its matted hair.

“Mother!” He cried in terror.
“I knew you’d join me here one day, son!” His mother cackled witch-like and cold.

Howard turned and fled from his mother and burst right through the fourth wall, or ‘the over-page’ as I like to call it. He needed to be placed in a holding cell of sorts so I drew up for him a traumatic childhood even and marooned him there for a few paragraphs.

Howard is or was or will be a very special person. He is a character. He is my character and as such I have complete control over him. I can make him, live, die, live again, love, hate, lose or win provided I’ve a convincing enough story to get him there. Often – as in this case – I don’t even need that. Some of the best stories are the simply composed of watching a character cope in exceptional and wholly unexplained circumstances. How does the portrait come to bare the scars of Dorian’s soul? Who knows! Who cares, more to the point - it just does.

Unfortunately, one thing necessary for a compelling story is an expanded character, a believable character who inspires sympathy in the reader. Luckily to rectify this, the author can engage in further sadism which, to be honest, is probably what the author likes best!

So, what would make the reader sympathise with our Howard? Well, he’s locked in a spot of childhood torment and clearly has issues with his mother. We can happily expand upon this. Nothing wells up some juicy sympathy like cruel injustice!
Howard awoke at the back of the class in his primary school. Sitting in front of him were all of the children with whom he is to grow up. They don’t like him. He is quiet and shy – children never like this. This makes (or has made) Howard very unhappy. He has problems at home and doesn’t sleep very well. It shows, he is always falling asleep in lessons and is subject to much of the teacher’s bullying.

Half-way through a lesson, 7 year old Howard is whimpering at the back of the classroom when his mother bursts in. His mother is an angry alcoholic whose husband left her shortly after Howard’s birth – in her own way she is a victim, but a monstrous one.

“Howard, you’ve wet the bed again you little bastard. You’re coming straight home with me this instant!” Shrieked the awful, dishevelled woman.

Quiet and shy Howard is forced to trudge out of the classroom, his eyes begging the floor for a reprieve. None came and the jeers and taunts of his classmates seemed to never end.

Who could fail to sympathise with a shy, nervous child? I challenge you not to care. Furthermore, who could fail to feel better disposed to a shy, nervous child who has managed to scrape from the ashes of his poor upbringing a decent character or at least a charming one! Yes, to further the reader’s appreciation of dear Howard, it would surely be a good idea to demonstrate his strength of character. Of course as the singularly most important influence on Howard’s life I can make him as benevolent or as mean-spirited as I want. Right now, it suits my purposes for Howard to be a selfless saint. So that is what he is.

One morning whilst walking to a job Howard was already late for he passed a poor old tramp weeping in the gutter. The man was thin, worn and, had he been standing up, would have been on his last legs. Now this was no surprising sight in London, the homeless were distressingly commonplace. Howard, on this occasion, was touched. This man was not even begging but simply looking dejected. Howard was moved to rake his pockets for all of his remaining change that he had scraped together for the bus. He handed this proudly to the man and instructed to make himself comfortable with a cup of tea for a while. Then Howard sauntered on, exuding the light of human kindness. Unfortunately, the light of human kindness does little to help you keep your job and upon striding into work, beaming a whole hour and a half late, Howard was promptly sacked.

Are you not brimming with love for our Howard now? Of course not, this is shoddy prose and second hand emotion signifying nothing. But masters of the craft can conjure up powerful sentiments for a fiction. For example, I suspect you must be a cold, emotionless rock if you are not intensely concerned for Lyra Belacqua of ‘His Dark Materials’.

In many cases this sympathy effects even the author, and arguably it is a key part of any truly touching story for the author to love and cherish the characters he has birthed. However, there is a key risk, there is a danger that the author’s affection for his characters will lead to the character’s preservation at the expense of the narrative. I have chosen to call this ‘going native’, a term previously used by cleverer men for more worthy phenomena. An example of going native, albeit and over-simplified one, would read thus.

‘After many trials and tribulations at the hands of the mysterious author, Howard won out. He returned to his home, got another, better paid job and began wooing the woman he loved. He married and had three beautiful and disgustingly talented children. The end.’

Or perhaps:

‘And it was all a dream.’ – a favourite of many under-whelming primary school fiction exercises.

Both of these endings are lacking in emotion and are borne out of a reluctance to wreak further devastation on a character the author has grown to love.

However, the story would flow a lot better were our Howard to die a painful but heart-warming death as he makes peace with the world, whilst enriching our understanding of the world with an off-the-cuff and intensely powerful soliloquy. Wouldn’t that be a better way to end? Yes. Better than this at any rate.

To quote a much better author – ‘So it goes.’

I am now aware this piece bears some similarity to the Will Ferrell film 'Stranger than Fiction'

Green

It was a bad word.
But I have known others,
Hate, anger, loyalty?

I am green.
The colour of fields
And trees

And sin.
But this is my lie.
And

I have known others.



DISCLAIMER: This is not an entirely serious work, this is a half-arsed attempt at parodying popular poet Carol Ann Duffy. It is not very good.

Leaving.

I’ve never been one for leaving. It’s not in my bones, my blood, my whatever – it’s not there. It was in everyone elses’. They left. Lord knows that they found. It’s a strange and frightening world out there, one which I can scarcely fathom and hardly want to. Hardly fathom, scarcely want to.

William left in the morning, bags bulging and heart swelling with pride – new opportunities, new friends and a myriad of possible lays. Oh, prospects! The journey was excitable, every road sign a daring enticement – come and see if you’re brave enough, what lies within?

In a service station all was shiny and new. He revelled in the exciting urinal. How different this all was. The prospect of moving on sure put things in a new light. He returned to his table, hands pleasantly reeking of the petty excuse for soap he had been plied with. The scent of the new world. His cold burger was sumptuous and the pig’s buttock scraping bacon a delight.

He returned to his mother’s car – chariot. 127 miles away Chris was on the road the sun crept from behind a cloud and Michaela crept further away. Pangs of longing and excitement jostled for pride of place in his heart, brain. Was hope a place? He wouldn’t know until he got there – something of a half-arsed conclusion.

Whilst the others were shipping out, Joseph was in place. Settling into his new room he was rebuilding fondness for all the things he’d brought with him. Familiarity breeds complacency and with a whole swathe of his life washed away he was not easily going to lose these trinkets from home. With all his things reassured and in place he stepped barefoot into the corridor. Something outside his door demanded to be known underfoot. He looked. It was a pebble. A small, beige pebble, just large enough to be intrusive but entirely inconsequential. He kicked it away.

Meanwhile William cursed the lay-by. The signs further along the road were giant taunts in a friendly and mocking font. Mother and Father insisted that they didn’t know what was wrong, the chariot was not on fire, but just as useless. S.O.S – Stupid Old Sod, William mused dejectedly, there was no new world for him just yet, just a darkening motorway and the gossamer thin promise of AA help.

Meanwhile, Chris had placed himself. The place was wrong but he settled in all the same – make a go of it. It was late and his new and unfamiliar bed bid him enter. The morning was another place and another possibility.

Joseph awoke, groggy, memories of the night before were regrettably tenacious. They clung to him – a disorientating glove. He stepped into the corridor. Something. Something was there. He looked. It was a pebble. A small, beige pebble, just large enough to be intrusive but entirely inconsequential. He was surprised. It looked familiar. He kicked it away, puzzled and nauseous and began the dizzying journey to the kitchen.

William awoke. The travel inn was glum. The curtains were little defence against the vulgar local sun. Other suns were so much better – refined. He trudged to the toilet. It was greying and a displeasing catalogue of previous tenants. He looked in the mirror, it was past its sell by date. A cracked smile and a silent shout.

Chris awoke. His sun gleamed and danced through the window, a crack in the curtains ushered him to the doorway. He dressed quickly and went instinctively to the main gate. His post-box looked appetizing. He delved inside and found hope. Heaven was a box. Reading Michaela’s messy and hurried scrawl was like loving all over again and he did. On his way back to his room everyone was a smiling cherub brimming with benevolence and love. The birds chirped romantic strings.

Something. It was a small pebble. Beige, rounded. Not of any consequence. Intrusive. Joseph hurried back inside with the pebble and his cornflakes. The cornflakes drowned into a shapeless mush as he furiously studied his nemesis. Small. Beige. Intrusive. Malicious. Haunting.

The garage called. Mr and Mrs William ushered William out to the travel inn forecourt. He gasped excitedly at his chariot. It glistened with god-knows-what and beckoned him inside. He rushed forward, giddy and climbed in. He was back on track. The signs smiled – yesterday was a joke, no harm done I trust?

Joseph slithered silently to his door and yanked it open. He looked down at the ground just outside the threshold. Small. Beige. Intrusive. He threw the offender down the hall, stormed back inside and slammed his door.

2 Miles sang a chorus of green rectangular beauties. Indicators winked and willed William onwards. Onwards to victory.

Joseph looked outside cautiously again. He was there. He saw him, his odious beige hide. Sitting passive on the carpet. Why are you doing this? Joseph screamed. He giggled and said nothing.

The countryside began to taper to nothing. Where was it, this glorious palace of learning and excitement, this brave new world? All was white. No trees, no buildings. The other cars and the road faded into white. Where was he. He was there. But Warwick wasn’t there.

Neither was I. So don’t quote me on it. I can’t leave. Never have. Probably never will.

Stranded (or 'Thoughts on Colliding')

It was broken. Beyond repair, Number One said. The word among the crew was that there “wasn’t a hope”. Number Two observed the ship, now mostly visible amongst the trees. Since the crash the cloaking device had been gradually losing power and now any curious rambler or UFO nut would have to try very hard not to see it.

After realizing that the ship was beyond repair many of the crew, now at something of a loose end, had taken to analysing their records of the planet and time in which they were stranded. The outlook was not good. They found numerous newspaper cuttings documenting a large ‘problem’, as it was optimistically called, due to occur in a matter of days. As they dug deeper into this mysterious, ground-shaking ‘problem’ that was to occur, they were bombarded with investigative journalism and thoughtful pieces into the nature of free will and questioning whether unimportant species such as those responsible should be mothered more by the wider inter-galactic community.

Resigned to their fate the crew sought to entertain themselves. This came in the form of betting absurd amounts of currency, which was now essentially worthless, on seemingly random events – such as the flight paths of passing owls, blackbirds and flies.

“A million says it’ll fly past that bushel of whatever and then…explode.” Proclaimed a clearly drunk Number Eight.

“You’re on!” Exclaimed Number Fifteen jovially.

The thing promptly flew past that bushel of whatever and then with equal promptness exploded as it was lasered by a gleeful Number Eight.

“A million, if you please.” Grinned Number Eight holding out his hand expectantly.

Number Fifteen somewhat dejectedly went to his locker and fetched the appropriate currency.

Other members of the crew had amused themselves with other pranks. Numbers Five, Nine and Three had gone out on a jolly to the closest settlement to the crash site and attempted to attain the services of prostitutes. The game they had set up consisted of taking their respective prostitutes to their respective rooms and seeing which one could illicit the loudest scream upon revealing his entirely alien genitalia.

However failing to account for the pluckiness of this particular planet’s sex workers, each was disappointed when no screams came and the girls set to work. Returning to the ship several hours later, Numbers Five, Nine and Three were silent and wide-eyed and curiously broke.

A day before inevitability set in a rambler stumbled upon the clearing the crashed ship had made for itself. As he gaped in awe Number Two slid nonchalantly out of the ship’s emergency exit hatch and violently insisted that he came in peace whilst waving what looked like a futuristic weapon around. He explained that the world was going to end in under two days and then watched, giggling as the rambler stumbled, screaming away.

“What were you doing?” Enquired Number One now lolling out of the hatch lazily.

“Just spooking some random. It’s almost lost all entertainment value – but not quite”

That night, somewhere on a nearby continent a chain of events was set into motion that would soon engulf the virginal planet. At the very same time Number Fifteen ran around the nearby town centre yelling “Redrum” in his best impression of intergalactic mega-star Jack Nicholson. Meanwhile back at the ship Numbers Seven and Eight were using some of the ship’s more abstract technology to launch the entire filmography of intergalactic mega-star Jack Nicholson out of the planet’s atmosphere.

In the morning Number One gathered the entire crew in the briefing room for one last speech.

“Now I know many of you are hungover and the last thing you want is to listen to me. So you won’t have to for much longer. As you all know today is the day when this planet and, due to circumstances bizarrely left outside of our vast sphere of influence, us will perish. I believe it’d be uncharacteristic of our mighty race to get sentimental or morbid now and in light of this, I’ve opened a military strength bottle of ultra-vodka – get smashed.”

The crew began to drink off their hangovers, drown their sorrows and saturate their fears as trees and buildings less than a mile off were torn out of existence and flushed into an unappreciative ether.

As everything began to wink out of being the crew sang songs and told jokes and did impressions of intergalactic mega-star Jack Nicholson.

“Here’s…” Was the last loud cry to come from the ship as it too un-became.

Interestingly enough, the only thing to escape the planet in the days before its destruction was a collection of films and a charred piece of thing. The films were picked up a thousand years later by a passing craft a million light years away and the charred piece of thing floated serenely towards the sun where it burnt into nothing.

Netheravon (rough)

Wizened and grey Mr Forbes stood panting next to the rickety barn. It creaked in an irritated manner and startled old Mr Forbes leapt away from it. Overhead the stars twinkled oblivious.

Mr Forbes slowly made his way from the barn to the main road. Netheravon was unsettlingly quiet. There were no scuttlings or rustlings nor a solitary bark. However as he walked, Mr Forbes’ confidence grew, he knew he was near the end of his search. The end of months of tireless searching.

On the edge of Netheravon he found the house. It was distinct, it had the smell – the musty yet glorious smell he knew so well. The door was scarcely on its hinges and all was dark inside. Mustering his new found courage he pushed inside. Drawn to the odour he moved to the largest of the rooms, what was seemingly a lounge. The lounge was full of old books and boxes and in one corner a large shape groaned. Drooling and growling the colossal cat was seated in a ripped arm chair.

“Alan.” Breathed Mr Forbes.

“Cornelius! You old bastard, you shall never get it. Never.” Snarled Alan the cat, shifting his obscene weight in the groaning chair.

“Give me what is rightfully mine!” Roared Cornelius Forbes.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Asked Alan menacingly, rising from the chair he staggered towards Cornelius until he loomed over the old man. Cornelius was no short man but beneath the seven foot feline hulk he felt small.

“I have come for what is mine, Alan. You cannot begrudge me that…” Shuddered Cornelius

“You were too old and too feeble. You lacked the inspiration and drive. I have that inspiration and drive. You wouldn’t believe the trades, Cornelius, the deals I have done.” Alan declared with a maniacal twinkle in his eyes. “Now, my withered old man, I, and I alone, hold the world’s most comprehensive stamp collection!” With this exclamation Alan swung his claws and Mr Forbes crumpled in front of him.

The old man fell to the floor and threw up a cloud of dust. As it settled Mr Forbes used his dying moments to gaze at the boxes and books which he knew contained his life’s work. Alan cackled and returned to his seat. A solitary tear crept into the floorboards.

Wilberforce continues (rough)

A rallying wind blew the long grass of the meadow into life. Dr. Wilberforce felt the chill through his long, charismatic coat as he strode towards the forest. The rustling trees beckoned him onwards whilst the glinting houses further down the hill served only to remind him of how he had become estranged.

Twilight had set in as Wilberforce reached the forest and, he concluded, it would be many a twilight until he left. The cottagers in the valley glanced at him disinterestedly and those who had finished cottaging and returned to their cottages gazed for a mere second longer.

The forest, meanwhile, opened its branches for its newly recruited hermit. As he walked deeper into the wood, the brambles and the trees gently enfolded him and his tattered backpack like a mother cradling a young child. Being the victim of cruel circumstance, Wilberforce certainly enjoyed the same level of innocence as the cradled child.

Soon the soft, loving coo of the owls began to caress Wilberforce’s ears. His feather’s bristled with anticipation. Instinctively he clambered up an oak. His blood coursing with adrenaline he scaled ever higher until he fell foul of a rotten branch and fell to the floor. The floor caught him with a net of discarded tree parts seemingly placed so ease him back to the floor. It was to be a steep learning curve, but one Wilberforce considered himself ready to embrace. He loved the forest and the forest loved him back.

Howard Catswell (rough)

As he emerged from the hospital local doctor Robin Fitzgerald looked gaunt and tired as he was chaperoned to an awaiting car by two armed policemen. Police have thus far said little about the investigation but it is understood that Dr. Fitzgerald has been arrested in connection with the discovery of his wife, Alison Fitzgerald, being found dead next to a nearby stretch of road near Alkstead.

The police has voiced their suspicion that Alison’s death was no accident. Dr. Fitzgerald is yet to be charged with his wife’s murder but inside sources have suggested that he could be charged as early as Friday morning.

Report by Howard Catswell.

****

After writing up his report Howard passed a copy to the Belbury Standard’s editor and slunk out of the office. Standing on the doorstep of his office he gazed at the park across the road and sighed. It had been a long day. Crime was outlandish enough in Belbury let alone murder, and the entire thing had left him feeling somewhat distanced from society – most of all the small time hacks still lodged in the office. They were still analysing the best way to sensationalise the incident and villainise the doctor at the centre.

As he walked home across the park he saw children playing, hopelessly unaware of the human tragedy occurring on the outskirts of town. A feathery man in a long coat fervently tried to avoid Howard’s gaze. The autumn evening crept in and a chill wind picked up causing the man’s long coat to flare open and he stumbled on the path. Howard was sure he saw a tear in the man’s eye as he walked past.

The clouds rolled in as Howard continued across the park. One of his colleagues coming the opposite way nodded in recognition. The man was dressed so despicably fashionably and was constantly hooked up to his iPod like it was the matrix. This thought stuck with Howard – ‘This can’t be it!’ he thought. ‘This’ remained ‘it’.

Wilberforce Scops (rough)

“Honestly Mrs Willis, your son will be fine, just ensure he keeps taking his medicine.”

“Oh thank you Dr. Scops, I will. Charlie will be so pleased when he hears!”

With that, Mrs Willis was gone. Dr. Scops returned to the overt nervousness that had plagued him all day. It was almost time for his appointment and he sat in his office shaking.

“Miss Saunders, is that the last of my appointments for today?” He asked his intercom.

“Yes Dr. Scops.” His intercom dutifully replied.

Like a man condemned Dr. Scops pulled his coat from the coat stand and put it on. It was a large coat somewhat reminiscent of the sort of thing a first world war soldier would be found scrabbling around the trenches in. Dr. Scops had bought it for himself on his 25^th birthday as a treat – it made him feel like a confident man about town. Yet today nothing seemed to fit.

Dr. Scops was adopted. He had known nothing about his parents yet had repeatedly refused a DNA test out of pure fear. The thought of definite, tangible results – like a gravestone scared him. Since discovering his adoptive parents were not truly his, however, a sense of emptiness had hung over him like a tenacious rain-cloud. He longed for identity – and today he was to get it.

The culmination of years of waiting and dreading had him worked up. He hadn’t been sleeping well and was now a shell of his former self. There were bags beneath his eyes and he was greying and not even a charismatic coat could cheer him up today.

As he left the surgery he though about all the possible outcomes; what if his parents were famous, alive, dead, criminals, royalty, rich, poor.

“Belbury centre.” He said, his voice trembling, as he boarded the bus into the nearby Belbury town.

“Rough day, Will?” Enquired the kindly, bearded bus driver.

“You could say that Alan” Muttered Dr. Scops, fumbling for his ticket.

The bus thundered through country roads from Dr. Scops’ village practice in Wetteridge to Belbury and Dr. Scops felt his anticipation growing as the metres trailed away with the exhaust. Hamlets and country pubs waved quaintness at the windows, Scops felt sure he would be frequenting such an establishment later drowning his sorrows or jubilantly treating the locals to round after round.

Finally the bus arrived at the appropriate stop and Scops, shaking in his charismatic coat, disembarked and walked into the hospital.

“Wilberforce Scops…I’m here to see Dr. Fitzgerald…about my test results” Said Scops fearfully.

“Ah yes, Wilberforce! Dr. Fitzgerald will be along for you shortly, in the mean time take a seat.” The receptionist gently indicated a free seat.

Wilberforce gladly sat himself down and set to resolutely fidgeting. It wasn’t long until Dr. Fitzgerald arrived. He was a stern looking man a little over six foot tall and with large eyebrows which seemed to represent his great wisdom. Despite his fierce demeanour he was an old friend of Wilberforce Scops and welcomed him warmly.

“Will! Lovely to see you!” He boomed and placed a tender arm on Wilberforce’s shoulder.

“Robin.” Said Wilberforce, acknowledging him with a friendly nod.

“Come, come! Let’s see a little more fight in you, let’s go to my office.”

After a few minutes of traversing busy corridors, Wilberforce and Robin found themselves in the familiar office. Robin motioned Wilberforce to have a seat.

“I have the all important test results here Will. Are you ready? All that waiting is almost over. I’ll admit these results will be a little shocking, but they’ll give you that identity you’ve been searching for. Are you ready?”

“Oh god…” Muttered Wilberforce, “yes, give them to me…”

“Ok. First off, we couldn’t find any DNA matches from our databases, but your sample did throw up something surprising. It’s the first time I’ve had to break this to a patient – you’re an owl Will.”

”A what?! An owl?!?”

“Yes, an owl. A Scops/Barn owl cross to be exact. Your mother was a Scops and your father a Barn owl. Understandably it was impossible to trace your exact parents. I’m afraid this was the best we could find in the way of results.”

“I’m…frankly, shellshocked. What…how can I come to terms with this?” Asked Wilberforce, gobsmacked.

“Tell you what, Will, I clock off in an hour or so, we’ll go down the pub and talk. Maybe the Rat and Badger?”

“I think that would be a good idea, Robin. I need a pint. I’ll be in Westenhanger park, I need to think.”

“See you later then, Will! Don’t let it get you down, it’s just a bit of a shock.”

Wilberforce left the hospital in a daze and trudged across suburban recreation grounds and past baying gangs of teenagers. After a while he found himself in Westenhanger park just a little outside the city centre. It was a grand expanse of grass and trees surrounded by distinctly Victorian railings. ‘The jewel in Belbury’s crown’, claimed the council proudly.

Wilberforce placed himself heavily on a decaying bench ‘dedicated to Janet Longleat’ it happily informed his back. He sat blankly for an hour or so. He was scarcely aware of the time passing. He was equally unaware of the police sirens hastening towards the outskirts or the shouting of unruly children in the park.

After a good three hours Robin had not arrived, and Wilberforce walked home alone.

A Thorough and Distasteful Dissection of Fictional Suburban Wildlife

There was little for a walrus to do on a Monday afternoon, noted the walrus. It was of course not the sort of sentiment that would be noted by anyone other than a walrus because, naturally, none other than walruses are concerned with such trivial matters as walrus boredom.

The walrus shuffled along by the recreational ground and watched the ants dance upon the path.

“There’s ever so little to do

as a Walrus in the afternoon,

so I shall talk to you

for want of anything better to do.” Rhymed the walrus to a passing crow.

“Drunkard” Cursed the crow, flying back to his suburban nest. He brought to his wife and chicks a roasting joint of worm for dinner before excusing himself saying he had to go and pick up more shopping. He flew to a discreet rendezvous in gropecunt lane, atop a lamp post with Robin – a disreputable, flighty little thing. After an exchange of twigs and shiny things they engaged in the sinful act. Married with two children suburban crow carried on to his business.

Robin sat upon the lamp post waiting for more custom.

Whilst she did this, everything carried on. The cars, the walrus, the crow’s familial charade of happiness, the breeze and the ants and the afternoon progressed. Time waits for no walrus nor crow.

Field Scenes

Some geese sat in a field with an abandoned burger van and a tyre. This was a world unto itself. Not since the addition of the large van emblazoned with garish, yet now fading letters, had anything troubled the field, or its geese or for that matter the tyre. As far as the geese were concerned, the tyre was a loner, it had long ago rolled for the last time and now wallowed in rubbery self-pity. They didn’t bother the tyre very much. Yet the burger van was an exciting newcomer with its bright colours and intriguing hatch it proved an interesting companion. It would sit in the field, shining with ethereal radiance (or shining with grease – something which the geese barely understood). The geese entertained themselves by doing laps of the burger van. The tyre appeared notably saddened by this newcomer to the field.

The tyre had never really expressly conveyed any warmth for his companions, but had liked to think of them as beings in the same boat as he was. He found himself alienated from their lapping game. Of course it wasn’t his fault that he was without an axle or propulsion – and being on his side, not in the best position for rolling anyway. Yet this still felt like a shortcoming on his behalf.

The tyre sat grieving amongst the lengthening grass, which threatened to, in a few months, cover him entirely. He wept for the geese who had a new companion and for all the roads he would never roll upon.

A solitary tear oozed between his grooves – or was it dew. I could hardly tell the difference as my train rolled by.

Equine Rivalry

Mr Everett sat seething in his bed-sit. His chair was gently crumbling beneath 10 years of his large donkey weight. It had suffered in silence for a long time, but now saw fit to creak every time Everett placed his behind upon it. From his chair Everett could see only discarded cigarette packets, crumbs and beer cans and the odd burnt out joint. It was remarkable he could see at all given the state of his eyes which were adorned with bags which were like vast expanses of ash. He sighed and then wheezed with the effort of sighing. Beyond the wreckage of a long life of consumerism Everett could see his television which was showing scenes of a live action adaptation of ‘My Little Pony’ intermittently between bursts of static.

“Fucking pony cunts!” Yelled Everett before coughing at the exertion of shouting.

“Why…the fuck…should they be so fucking highly respected when…when…when fine fucking folk like myself are left to traipse Blackpool beach with fucking kids on our back?!” Everett raved at no one.

His neighbours were very much aware of his pony prejudice. This stemmed from what he saw as false stereotyping of equine animals – ponies are cute and lovable, donkeys are bumbling fools. Everett was convinced that this unfair image was perpetuated in pop culture even by programmes such as Winnie the Pooh in which Eeyore was a depressed loner.

The truth was, either way, the ponies were successful and Everett, having punished himself with toxins for years, was unfit even for the beaches of Blackpool.

The sun gazed through the crack in the curtains and illuminated another puff of cigarette smoke. The sun sighed and went to bed.

Thoughts on smiles and checkout operation

A smile flitted across my face. It lingered for a while before proceeding to other business. I mused on the nature of happiness for a while before dismissing it as fickle – must like my own facial expressions. Then I wondered why and how an assortment of muscle movements could manifest and create happiness. And if a smile was so effective at this job, why could the same not be said for tautened elbow skin or a bent little finger? People don't make sense.

My supervisor walks past my checkout and fires a cursory glance at me accompanied by a smile denoting recognition. She doesn't know what my name is. I flex my elbow in greeting. She cocks an eyebrow – confusion. People don't understand me. Sometimes I wonder if I do. What if all this time I've been getting myself all wrong. I imagine the situation –

My conscience walks up to me. Things aren't working out, I just feel you don't know me. I think we should try a trial separation.

Don't go! I beg. It goes. I go limp. Oh well.

A customer takes a pin made of pure unwanted attention to my blissful bubble of dreams. My language becomes flowery and over dramatic. I warmly greet them like an old friend. Welcome! Come in, sit by the fire, would you like something to drink? Can I help with your packing. They are not my friend. I know it, they know it and they respond – their reply heavily laden with false warmth. A sense of dreary joviality lazily flops over the conversation. They joke about how they only came in for a pint of milk. I could scarcely care less. I laugh politely. My laugh is like a bicycle pump for their ego. Endorsed by my laugh they are suddenly the world's greatest stand up – the torpid, mundane shopping gags that I've heard a million times before rattle by like freight trains. A metaphor which only helps highlight how mass produced such jokes are. I profusely thank anonymous customer number 482 for his custom and take his money with a smile made of lies. I quietly thank my muscles.

My Aborted Prose

The sun rose, in that sort of fiery glistening style it usually does. I always like to start with some sort of description of dawn. It's a rather nice time but my descriptions always seem to lack any sort of soul. To be truthful, of course, the sun did nothing at all, it was late evening on an October Sunday and the sky did that dull uneventful thing it always seems to. Yet I should take comfort that somewhere, the sun was rising, and it was more fiery and glistening than I would ever see – the grass is always greener, no? Anyway the state of the sky and in fact a vague date and time having been established I should venture into the uncharted territory of some sort of narrative.

Well best to begin nine months ago when the whole thing began. I was lying in bed one morning, the sun was rising, glistening and fiery but somewhat lacklustre and uninspiring. Then it hit me a little spark – something to do with neural patterns and brainwaves and all that. Somewhere it was conceived a little gleaming centre one of those most precious things. Those little electrical signals that are at the birth of all those distractions from the primary objectives of eating, sleeping and reproducing. I rushed to the computer. It took a dreadfully long time to load. As it loaded I felt offended by its cold logical progressions – it didn't have what I had, sure it had been born of one but it didn't have what I now possessed, it was inferior. Whilst I stewed in my contempt, Windows treated me to a little jingle for my pleasure. I snorted at its pathetic attempt to curry favour. Metal bastard. However I didn't share my dislike for it with the computer, whatever I thought of it I needed its power. Then I began. I typed and typed and typed – the words flowing out of me like extra appendages – don't ask me what they said I can't remember now, but it was stunning, it was natural – everything was right. Every morning this process would continue. I saw the words and constituent letters wrack up on the unsightly simulation of a page. From time to time I mused on the nature of paper and how I'd prefer parchment, but that mattered not, for even the pixelated punctuation seemed beautiful.

Sometimes I would think of my strange mutually dependant relationship with the lifeless box sitting next to me and its associated other boxes all similarly grey and distasteful. Not even their friendly curved edges would curb my dislike for them. They sat there, smug in the knowledge that I needed them to perform my demands as much as they needed me to press a button.

The months progressed and the words and fake pages and letters and commas and glorious hyphens – I do so like hyphens – stacked up. They still all seemed perfect, all so lovingly crafted – art no less! A picture paints a thousand words, with 2000 words I can make two pictures and my word count was going up. I'd wipe the smile of that conceited little Mona Lisa, she'd be on her way to Edvard Munch.

Then it came to today, a nine month process. I wake up eager to read over my work, my creation. I caress the first few lines tenderly with my eyes. I am the proud father and the mother – this was the asexual reproduction of authorship. Then, paragraph two, three, four – marvellous, beautiful everyone of them. Then, I felt lost. Where was I going, where was the plot, what on earth was I thinking. Still born. It was dead on the monitor, lifeless. It would soon be consigned to the recycle bin with all the other concept shaped fetuses.

Back to the drawing board.

Open letter to a Mr Samuel Coleridge

Dear Mr Coleridge,

I am writing this letter to express my distaste at the sentiments shown by you regarding the shooting of albatrosses in your poem "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner". In my opinion, these unsightly beasts not only deserve to, but should be shot upon first sight if possible. I ask you Mr Coleridge have you ever taken the time to look one of these filthy animals in the eye? If you had, I feel sure you would experience the same sense of utter, unparalleled disgust as I do upon looking upon them as they waft their fetid stench of fish and miles and miles of sea upon me. These creatures taunt us, Mr Coleridge, and for this treachery deserve to be treated no better than a repugnant cancer upon the ocean. They must be expunged from our memories, their skeletons exhumed and cast into the fiery pits of hell.

Also I wish to prove to you that the shooting of these grotesque harpies of the Pacific is not in fact bad luck. When I was but a small child my father shot such an animal, all that year I achieved good grades in Geography class. Admittedly I had a penchant for geography before the shooting of said bird, yet my point still stands. Furthermore my wife accepted my proposal of marriage after I displayed my brute strength by shooting an albatross from out cliff top house.

In addition to a public retraction of your statements on albatross shooting I also wish you to make necessary revisions to "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner". However since you are hundreds of years dead I have made the required changes myself.

The poem reads the same up until the shooting incident, which now reads thus:

`God save thee, ancient Mariner !
From the fiends, that plague thee thus !--
Why look'st thou so ?'--With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS.

The rest of the journey fared well.

THE END

I care not if these amendments please you. If you wished me to take your opinions into account you should not have published such frankly disgusting views on albatross preservation.

Yours furiously

Dr. Albert Fulmar

Not entirely serious fiction (a reprise)

The return of Not Entirely Serious Fiction

Miss Helena Kensington reclined in her garden lounger. It was a rainy day but Miss Kensington had, as she put it, "bought the bloody thing," so she was going to "fucking well use it".

Next door Lord Walthamstow peered over his fence. He had been pruning his bushes, but whilst under the influence of LSD had pruned them to mere stumps. He spied Miss Kensington in her lounger; something about her struck him as different to the morning, when he had watched her putting her clothes on using binoculars – a radical method of dressing but she preferred it to any other.

He suddenly realised what it was:

"Miss Kensington!" he exclaimed "You do appear to be covered in lizards!"

"What utter nonsense," dismissed Miss Kensington "have you been at the LSD again?" She enquired sternly, as a gecko playfully scuttled along her forehead.

Yet Lord Walthamstow was insistent. As they debated the matter, several assorted skinks and a small Gila monster, perturbed by the rain, sought shelter beneath the lounger.

The joy of not entirely serious fiction

Kate strolled in from the garden. She had been out there for several days and the family had been beginning to worry, but Cranbrook didn't fear for her, he remembered the summer of '74, most of which had been spent in a deck chair.

"I trust you have not begun to moulder again m'lady" he enquired.

"What?" Kate enquired as if in a dream

"You've been in the garden again, ma'am"

"Really?! Again, I really must reign myself in, I hardly even noticed"

"Well its always the way of these things, you remember your uncle Ernest don't you?"

"Yes…did they ever find him?"

"Yes, after six months watering the plants we got suspicious as to his whereabouts, it turns out he was underneath the petunias…we decided it was best not to uproot him…"

"Poor man, such a waste of a CBE"

The idle chatter continued for some time before Cranbrook busied himself ironing plant life, he did so like the stain a freshly ironed pansy made on his JML ironing board cover.

Some hours later the respectable Mr William Tottering arrived at the house.

"Yes?" Said Cranbrook answering the door, "Ah Mr Tottering! Do come in"

"Thank you, Cranbrook." Said Mr Tottering politely.

"Kate is in the back room, do go through"

Mr Tottering proceeded through. The back room of the house was unsurprisingly at the back. However in the 1600s it had been the front room, until parliament decided south was north and vice versa, at which point it became the back room. When he reached the back room Kate was stabbing a mattress.

"Kate?" Mr Tottering enquired.

"Oh! Do excuse me Mr Tottering, I was stabbing a mattress." Apologised Kate

"Not a problem, miss. But your downward action leaves a little to be desired"

"Some guidance would be much appreciated"

"I would be delighted" Said Mr Tottering.

He walked towards Kate and the mattress. He took her stabbing arm in his thin insect-like arm and gripped the screwdriver. Together they slowly moved the screwdriver into the mattress. The bedding gave way to their combined might. The achievement filled their souls with joy and they collapsed into each others arms.

"Kate my dear…" said Mr Tottering nervously

"yes?" she enquired in a fearful tone

"I have something to tell you…"

"what, my love?"

"I'm afraid…I'm a Praying Mantis."

"I know William, I know…somehow…I've always known."

"Then are you comfortable with having a litter of mantis-babies"

"William, darling, my love for you spreads beyond boundaries set out by Darwin, I would love you were you a squid or even Welsh!"

"I am truly unworthy!" Gasped William, choking back tears

Geographically incorrect writing

Wild stallions galloped across the expansive and possibly totally fictional plains of Scandanavia. They dashed and swerved like a swarm of agitated birds, as if for the sheer enjoyment of man.

Man however was not paying attention at this particular time, man turned to his son, Bjorn Mansson.

"Son, you are nearing your 11th birthday, aren't you?"
"No" replied young Bjorn.
"Well it is time you began to learn your father's trade." Said Man, having not listened to his son's response.
"What would you like me to do, father?" Enquired Bjorn nervously
"Return to the house and fetch my tools, and the booklet entitled 'The Government of Scandanavia's guide to Fatherhood.'"
"Yes father."

Bjorn rushed back to the house. He was full of apprehension, yet he was excited, he would soon be a man.

Meanwhile, Man had noticed that the stallions had ceased their galloping and formed a union. Man filled his time penning a letter of complaint to the government regarding the newly formed G.S.G (Galloping Stallions' Guild). After an hour of letter writing Bjorn returned with the required tools and helpful booklet.

Man perused the booklet for some time. He read much useful information such as "Your children most likely have an allergy to band saws, they may start leaking a red liquid. Under no circumstances attempt to make this into a beverage.". Out of the corner of his eye, Man noticed that the angry stallions had formed a blockade around the only post box for 10 miles. He was enraged that he would not be able to post his initial complaint letter, so enraged that he scrawled another hasty note about his anger at not being able to post either of his letters.

After many minutes Bjorn coughed politely, Man looked up from the helpful booklet. Thankfully he had just read the section on boredom and so was able to administer the correct treatment to his son. The Heimlich manoeuvre – repeatedly. Sure enough, after 13 administrations of this useful manoeuvre, Bjorn was not bored.

After several more hours looking at the helpful booklet, Man was prepared. He stood up, straightened his clothes. Bjorn perceived there was much gravity attached to what man was about to say.

"Today, my son…" Began Man.
"Yes, father?"
"I am going to teach you…" Said Man pausing for effect "How to craft Kinder egg toys."

END!

Opener/introduction

Good evening,

My name is (or isn't)
Howard A. Catswell.

This, my inaugural blog, is simply an introduction. I am the author of many a non-acclaimed work of short fiction. Previously these have been located in another place in cyberspace, but i have decided to amalgamate them into one website designed for their storage.

So I shall post what I consider to be the highlights of my lengthy (non-existant) career in writing.

Goodnight - don't have nightmares.