I'm entering an 100 word story contest and have done two drafts of a potential entry - I would like any opinions you have at all. It has to be EXACTLY 100 words, so there's not a great deal of room for manoeuvre.
ATTEMPT 1
Wilberforce, twitching in the waiting room, sweating into his feathers. This was the day. The day of truth, everything had been leading to this – the fateful meeting – maybe he'd have real parents now! Too sweet a thought, Wil, you'll set yourself up for disappointment.
He thought about the life that was waiting on the other side of the door. Every squeak of a chair and creak of a door sent him into a frenzy of trepidation. The door opened and he went in.
'Mr. Scops, there's no easy way to tell you this – You're an Owl.'
'Hoot.'
ATTEMPT 2
Wilberforce, twitching in the waiting room, sweating into his feathers. This was the day. The day of truth, everything had been leading to this – the fateful meeting – maybe he'd have real parents now! Too sweet a thought, Wil, you'll set yourself up for disappointment.
He thought about the life that was there, waiting, on the other side of the door. Every squeak of a chair and creak of a door sent him into a frenzy of trepidation. The door opened and he went in.
'Mr. Scops, there's no easy way to tell you this – You're an Owl.'
Only a very minor difference I'll admit - but still, if you read this any have any opinions either way. Let me know. Please.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
Saturday, 11 September 2010
Walks Into a Bar
This is a piece which cemented my failure, for the second time, to win some money. I was not shortlisted for the H.G. Wells short story prize this year. I'M NOT BITTER!
I was standing opposite William Harvey: his large, inert figure staring out to sea; he seemed almost as directionless as I felt. I sat on the curb opposite him for a while. He had been standing there as long as I could remember; patient but restless. He stood on his pedestal as a reminder that this town had produced brilliance in some bygone age and may do so again! I thought, for a moment, that this wasn't entirely fair; we'd had our share of visionaries and genius, but none were evident to me as I sat on the curb staring at Harvey's expressionless face. I continued to think for a moment.
I thought about how I had got there: through the curious labyrinth of Broadmead Village that confused all but seasoned residents; across Radnor Park, which was now scattered with the remnants of some kind of fair or circus visit; then up Castle Hill Avenue, lined with tall trees and covered with their leaf litter, until I found myself on the promenade imagining genius. Thinking of all the great feet that had padded along this route. Inadequacy crept in and I felt lonely. Then an idea struck – I stood up and began walking, suddenly full of purpose, towards Harvey's bar – it seemed somewhat appropriate.
I descended the stairs.
The light streaming in from the ground level window saw many strange particles caught in the act as I strode down the stairs into the inner sanctum. It was possessed by a deathly calm – I half expected to see a Pharaoh lying embalmed and encased in a sarcophagus propped upon one of the scratched and beer-sticky tables. I imagined the barman/ethereal watchman informing me of the curse which I now carried.
From this guardian I ordered my first pint of lager. It came soon after, frothing and inviting me to drink it. I obliged as I sauntered to the jukebox. Being well furnished with coins I saw fit to deposit a few in the jukebox and happily put on a lengthy mix of Booker T. and The M.G.'s. As I sat down I began to consider their comforting repetition as they grooved their way through three or more gently altered renditions of 'Green Onions'. Take solace in the Universe's constants, I say! 'Green Onions' and the ubiquitous William Harvey – as he stands in his eternal vigil, atop a plinth and smothered in bird waste.
A horse walked in.
'Why the...?' I could barely stifle.
'Stop it.' He said. 'You can buy me a drink for that.'
I duly did so and invited him to have a seat. He duly did so.
'Seriously though, what's wrong.' I asked The Horse.
'You can call me Glue. I'm for it, pal.'
'That bad, eh?'
'Pretty much.'
We sat in silence and drank. He drained his glass quicker than I – then again, of course, I had time on my hands. I patted him on the back as I could think of little else that might help.
'You know what I'll miss the most?' He said after some time.
'Nosebags?' I said casually.
'Don't be stupid. The smell of cut grass. It reminds me of when I was a foal at the riding school. There was a young lady there – most beautiful girl you've ever seen – Lady Jessica was her name. She was youthful and stunning; she took something of a liking to me. Sugar-lumps never tasted so good.' The Horse reminisced.
'That's a bit odd isn't it – cross species romance?' I frowned.
'Let me tell you – if you saw a mare of comparable beauty you'd be falling over yourself to try and impress her.'
I chose not to argue further. After all in his position he was allowed to reflect upon this little folly without me tarnishing the memory. I bought us both another drink and returned to the jukebox – this time opting for Glenn Campbell's 'Wichita Lineman'. It always got to me – reminded me of 'my girl', who, by some strange coincidence was also a Lady Jessica.
When I got back to the table The Horse was crying – a single tear making its way down his long face.
'Oh come on, lad – you've had a good time of things, surely?' I said, patting him once again.
He sniffed – which came out as a large and startling whinnying sound.
At this moment a priest walked down the worn steps into the inner sanctum. I'd like to think the 'deathly calm' had been dispelled and that the priest was hit by more of a genial warmth. I let him order a drink and then shouted:
'Hey, Padre.' I had learnt this from M*A*S*H and, without any clue as to his denomination, I considered this the safest and friendliest greeting. 'Would you do us the honour of your presence, I believe my friend here could use your help.'
The priest came over to our table and politely sat himself down, pint in hand.
'Hello boys, what seems to be the problem?' The priest asked politely.
'My friend, his time is almost up and I think he's having trouble coming to terms with it.' I indicated to the, now violently sobbing, Horse to my right.
'Ah, my child.' The priest soothed, patting The Horse gently. 'Don't cry, o sweet lamb as you shall soon be in the house of God – yes, it is a place for your kind as well.'
'You really think so, Father?' Snivelled The Horse, again letting go a fearful whinny.
'I'm paid to think so, son.' Replied the priest.
I thought this odd, but decided not to query it at this point. The Horse took another hearty swig, seemingly calmed by the idea of the next place after this one. Elysian Fields, I thought, seemed rather appropriate really. I let out a chuckle.
'Why're you giggling?' Asked The Horse.
I giggled again. 'Elysian Fields,' I said. 'Has never seemed so appropriate!'
The priest and The Horse sat stony faced for a moment and then both collapsed into fits of laughter. As the laughter ebbed away I sauntered to the jukebox, adding the occasional skip in my step. I selected 'Turn! Turn! Turn!' and hopped back to the table as The Byrds jangled delightfully behind me.
'Ecclesiastes!' Chirped the priest.
'Bless you!' Blurted The Horse before collapsing, once again, into uncontrollable laughter.
'No, you silly thing, the song – the lyrics are all from Ecclesiastes...in addition to this – the royalties mostly go to achieving peace between Palestine and Israel. A fact for you there, gentlemen.' Announced the priest, looking most pleased with himself.
'To a two-state solution!' I cried, clumsily raising my drink.
The Horse and the priest quickly joined me in my toast.
Presently I returned to the bar to secure the next round for my companions and The Horse cantered to the gents' to relieve himself. Upon returning to the table I turned to the priest, deciding to settle that which had been puzzling me.
'Reverend,' I began. ' You said you're paid to believe in heaven. That doesn't sound terribly convincing to me.'
'Well. You're right, it's not terribly convincing. I don't believe in God.' He stated, almost boastfully.
'Sorry, what?' I stammered, understandably confused.
'I don't believe in God.' He restated.
'Then why are you a vicar, vicar?'
'Because I believe that I have to play this role in society. In order for us to all get along smoothly everyone needs their own release and sense of purpose – for many people the source of that purpose is God – the Christian God and his son Jesus Christ of Nazareth who died for their sins. It is necessary that I provide this for my flock, who I love dearly. Think of it like this – it was a theological necessity for Judas to betray Jesus, otherwise he would've been unable to relieve man of his sins – no? Think of me as Judas, or for that matter Jesus, I've given my life to the church so that others may be saved.' The priest's whole frame looked lighter now, as if a weight had been lifted. I got the feeling he'd been dying for someone to ask him about his faith.
During this explanation The Horse had returned from his trip to the W.C via the jukebox and selected 'Son of a Preacher Man'. The Horse sat and giggled towards the priest for a few moments, pointing to the speakers. It was a tenuous joke but I let him off – he was condemned after all.
The priest sat ashen faced for a few moments before remarking:
'My son's in prison, you know.' He murmured.
The Horse's face fell, he looked mortified.
'Really?' He whimpered.
'No! Hahaha!' The priest suddenly erupted into laughter.
The Horse and I joined in, relieved. It became clear to me that we both found the idea of offending this gentle man immensely upsetting.
Sometime later – several drinks later – two kind looking men emerge from the antechamber behind the fruit machines where the pool table is kept.
'Good evening, friends.' Said the first, he had long greying hair and a small beard and was very tall. 'Would you gentlemen care for a game of pool?'
'Oh yes! Definitely.' Replied the grinning priest.
The Horse, however, raised some trifling objections – something about hooves.
'Come on, there's not a lot of time left – what've you got to lose?' I nagged The Horse until he relented.
The game went well – our hosts, who we discovered were called Keith and Charles – were most accommodating, coaching The Horse as he went. Over the course of the game it also emerged that the priest had spent some time hustling in Minnesota under the moniker 'Fats' – a fact he only revealed having light-heartedly relieved me of several pounds which I had misguidedly put at stake.
'The next round is on me!' Exclaimed the priest and promptly rushed to the bar.
'Don't often see a hard-drinking, gambling priest.' Said Keith – the large bearded pool player – once the priest was gone.
'He doesn't believe in God – he's performing a necessary societal function' The Horse and I announced gleefully.
'To necessary societal functions!' Boomed Charles, revealing a deep, sonorous voice which he had kept mostly quiet up to that point. The priest returned and gave a cheer and a smile.
I shut my eyes, just briefly, and thanked the Lord, any Lord, that I had been able to spend my evening in the company of such beautiful people. In this time The Horse had crept to the jukebox and returned to the opening strains of Love's 'Alone Again Or' and we all joined hands for a portion of a verse.
'Yeah, I heard a funny thing,
Somebody said to me,
You know that I could be in love with almost everyone,
I think that people are,
The greatest fun!'
All too soon closing time rumbled around and found me weeping into The Horse's soft mane.
'Good luck, old friend,' I sniffed. 'You'll be fine. There are better times ahead – even the preacher doesn't know what's up next. Just take care of yourself.'
'Likewise.' He whispered, suppressing a pained neigh.
We all thanked the barman and ascended the stairs to the street and to the world – and what a world, bathed in the light of streetlamps. I thought for a moment about light – all those different lights just helped us see things from different, equally lush and sublime angles.
And there, at the front of the bar: the priest, The Horse, Keith, Charles and I said our farewells and went our separate ways.
The walk home was soothing as I noticed so many new shapes under the friendly glow of the overhead lamps – and soon I was settling into my bed next to the Lady Jessica.
'Darling, I can't marry you – I'm in love with the rest of the world as well.' I whispered gently before drifting into my life's deepest and softest sleep.
I was standing opposite William Harvey: his large, inert figure staring out to sea; he seemed almost as directionless as I felt. I sat on the curb opposite him for a while. He had been standing there as long as I could remember; patient but restless. He stood on his pedestal as a reminder that this town had produced brilliance in some bygone age and may do so again! I thought, for a moment, that this wasn't entirely fair; we'd had our share of visionaries and genius, but none were evident to me as I sat on the curb staring at Harvey's expressionless face. I continued to think for a moment.
I thought about how I had got there: through the curious labyrinth of Broadmead Village that confused all but seasoned residents; across Radnor Park, which was now scattered with the remnants of some kind of fair or circus visit; then up Castle Hill Avenue, lined with tall trees and covered with their leaf litter, until I found myself on the promenade imagining genius. Thinking of all the great feet that had padded along this route. Inadequacy crept in and I felt lonely. Then an idea struck – I stood up and began walking, suddenly full of purpose, towards Harvey's bar – it seemed somewhat appropriate.
I descended the stairs.
The light streaming in from the ground level window saw many strange particles caught in the act as I strode down the stairs into the inner sanctum. It was possessed by a deathly calm – I half expected to see a Pharaoh lying embalmed and encased in a sarcophagus propped upon one of the scratched and beer-sticky tables. I imagined the barman/ethereal watchman informing me of the curse which I now carried.
From this guardian I ordered my first pint of lager. It came soon after, frothing and inviting me to drink it. I obliged as I sauntered to the jukebox. Being well furnished with coins I saw fit to deposit a few in the jukebox and happily put on a lengthy mix of Booker T. and The M.G.'s. As I sat down I began to consider their comforting repetition as they grooved their way through three or more gently altered renditions of 'Green Onions'. Take solace in the Universe's constants, I say! 'Green Onions' and the ubiquitous William Harvey – as he stands in his eternal vigil, atop a plinth and smothered in bird waste.
A horse walked in.
'Why the...?' I could barely stifle.
'Stop it.' He said. 'You can buy me a drink for that.'
I duly did so and invited him to have a seat. He duly did so.
'Seriously though, what's wrong.' I asked The Horse.
'You can call me Glue. I'm for it, pal.'
'That bad, eh?'
'Pretty much.'
We sat in silence and drank. He drained his glass quicker than I – then again, of course, I had time on my hands. I patted him on the back as I could think of little else that might help.
'You know what I'll miss the most?' He said after some time.
'Nosebags?' I said casually.
'Don't be stupid. The smell of cut grass. It reminds me of when I was a foal at the riding school. There was a young lady there – most beautiful girl you've ever seen – Lady Jessica was her name. She was youthful and stunning; she took something of a liking to me. Sugar-lumps never tasted so good.' The Horse reminisced.
'That's a bit odd isn't it – cross species romance?' I frowned.
'Let me tell you – if you saw a mare of comparable beauty you'd be falling over yourself to try and impress her.'
I chose not to argue further. After all in his position he was allowed to reflect upon this little folly without me tarnishing the memory. I bought us both another drink and returned to the jukebox – this time opting for Glenn Campbell's 'Wichita Lineman'. It always got to me – reminded me of 'my girl', who, by some strange coincidence was also a Lady Jessica.
When I got back to the table The Horse was crying – a single tear making its way down his long face.
'Oh come on, lad – you've had a good time of things, surely?' I said, patting him once again.
He sniffed – which came out as a large and startling whinnying sound.
At this moment a priest walked down the worn steps into the inner sanctum. I'd like to think the 'deathly calm' had been dispelled and that the priest was hit by more of a genial warmth. I let him order a drink and then shouted:
'Hey, Padre.' I had learnt this from M*A*S*H and, without any clue as to his denomination, I considered this the safest and friendliest greeting. 'Would you do us the honour of your presence, I believe my friend here could use your help.'
The priest came over to our table and politely sat himself down, pint in hand.
'Hello boys, what seems to be the problem?' The priest asked politely.
'My friend, his time is almost up and I think he's having trouble coming to terms with it.' I indicated to the, now violently sobbing, Horse to my right.
'Ah, my child.' The priest soothed, patting The Horse gently. 'Don't cry, o sweet lamb as you shall soon be in the house of God – yes, it is a place for your kind as well.'
'You really think so, Father?' Snivelled The Horse, again letting go a fearful whinny.
'I'm paid to think so, son.' Replied the priest.
I thought this odd, but decided not to query it at this point. The Horse took another hearty swig, seemingly calmed by the idea of the next place after this one. Elysian Fields, I thought, seemed rather appropriate really. I let out a chuckle.
'Why're you giggling?' Asked The Horse.
I giggled again. 'Elysian Fields,' I said. 'Has never seemed so appropriate!'
The priest and The Horse sat stony faced for a moment and then both collapsed into fits of laughter. As the laughter ebbed away I sauntered to the jukebox, adding the occasional skip in my step. I selected 'Turn! Turn! Turn!' and hopped back to the table as The Byrds jangled delightfully behind me.
'Ecclesiastes!' Chirped the priest.
'Bless you!' Blurted The Horse before collapsing, once again, into uncontrollable laughter.
'No, you silly thing, the song – the lyrics are all from Ecclesiastes...in addition to this – the royalties mostly go to achieving peace between Palestine and Israel. A fact for you there, gentlemen.' Announced the priest, looking most pleased with himself.
'To a two-state solution!' I cried, clumsily raising my drink.
The Horse and the priest quickly joined me in my toast.
Presently I returned to the bar to secure the next round for my companions and The Horse cantered to the gents' to relieve himself. Upon returning to the table I turned to the priest, deciding to settle that which had been puzzling me.
'Reverend,' I began. ' You said you're paid to believe in heaven. That doesn't sound terribly convincing to me.'
'Well. You're right, it's not terribly convincing. I don't believe in God.' He stated, almost boastfully.
'Sorry, what?' I stammered, understandably confused.
'I don't believe in God.' He restated.
'Then why are you a vicar, vicar?'
'Because I believe that I have to play this role in society. In order for us to all get along smoothly everyone needs their own release and sense of purpose – for many people the source of that purpose is God – the Christian God and his son Jesus Christ of Nazareth who died for their sins. It is necessary that I provide this for my flock, who I love dearly. Think of it like this – it was a theological necessity for Judas to betray Jesus, otherwise he would've been unable to relieve man of his sins – no? Think of me as Judas, or for that matter Jesus, I've given my life to the church so that others may be saved.' The priest's whole frame looked lighter now, as if a weight had been lifted. I got the feeling he'd been dying for someone to ask him about his faith.
During this explanation The Horse had returned from his trip to the W.C via the jukebox and selected 'Son of a Preacher Man'. The Horse sat and giggled towards the priest for a few moments, pointing to the speakers. It was a tenuous joke but I let him off – he was condemned after all.
The priest sat ashen faced for a few moments before remarking:
'My son's in prison, you know.' He murmured.
The Horse's face fell, he looked mortified.
'Really?' He whimpered.
'No! Hahaha!' The priest suddenly erupted into laughter.
The Horse and I joined in, relieved. It became clear to me that we both found the idea of offending this gentle man immensely upsetting.
Sometime later – several drinks later – two kind looking men emerge from the antechamber behind the fruit machines where the pool table is kept.
'Good evening, friends.' Said the first, he had long greying hair and a small beard and was very tall. 'Would you gentlemen care for a game of pool?'
'Oh yes! Definitely.' Replied the grinning priest.
The Horse, however, raised some trifling objections – something about hooves.
'Come on, there's not a lot of time left – what've you got to lose?' I nagged The Horse until he relented.
The game went well – our hosts, who we discovered were called Keith and Charles – were most accommodating, coaching The Horse as he went. Over the course of the game it also emerged that the priest had spent some time hustling in Minnesota under the moniker 'Fats' – a fact he only revealed having light-heartedly relieved me of several pounds which I had misguidedly put at stake.
'The next round is on me!' Exclaimed the priest and promptly rushed to the bar.
'Don't often see a hard-drinking, gambling priest.' Said Keith – the large bearded pool player – once the priest was gone.
'He doesn't believe in God – he's performing a necessary societal function' The Horse and I announced gleefully.
'To necessary societal functions!' Boomed Charles, revealing a deep, sonorous voice which he had kept mostly quiet up to that point. The priest returned and gave a cheer and a smile.
I shut my eyes, just briefly, and thanked the Lord, any Lord, that I had been able to spend my evening in the company of such beautiful people. In this time The Horse had crept to the jukebox and returned to the opening strains of Love's 'Alone Again Or' and we all joined hands for a portion of a verse.
'Yeah, I heard a funny thing,
Somebody said to me,
You know that I could be in love with almost everyone,
I think that people are,
The greatest fun!'
All too soon closing time rumbled around and found me weeping into The Horse's soft mane.
'Good luck, old friend,' I sniffed. 'You'll be fine. There are better times ahead – even the preacher doesn't know what's up next. Just take care of yourself.'
'Likewise.' He whispered, suppressing a pained neigh.
We all thanked the barman and ascended the stairs to the street and to the world – and what a world, bathed in the light of streetlamps. I thought for a moment about light – all those different lights just helped us see things from different, equally lush and sublime angles.
And there, at the front of the bar: the priest, The Horse, Keith, Charles and I said our farewells and went our separate ways.
The walk home was soothing as I noticed so many new shapes under the friendly glow of the overhead lamps – and soon I was settling into my bed next to the Lady Jessica.
'Darling, I can't marry you – I'm in love with the rest of the world as well.' I whispered gently before drifting into my life's deepest and softest sleep.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Lion
'Could you tie my laces?'
Says Dad.
'I'm choking – reach down my throat,
and fish out the lump.'
'They've taken so much,
of my blood.
I'm drowning in samples.'
Watch – boy.
Watch, as your lion,
now toothless, clawless,
struggles after the pride.
Stumbling around,
on an afternoon. He points,
to the houses of the dead.
Do you remember,
when he would banish the monsters?
When did they switch our guard dog,
for a sack of bones?
And now, wish your hateful wish,
upon some falling satellite -
'Please let Daddy be
quiet.'
I actually mean this one. Never thought I'd write a 'Daddy poem' but there you go.
Says Dad.
'I'm choking – reach down my throat,
and fish out the lump.'
'They've taken so much,
of my blood.
I'm drowning in samples.'
Watch – boy.
Watch, as your lion,
now toothless, clawless,
struggles after the pride.
Stumbling around,
on an afternoon. He points,
to the houses of the dead.
Do you remember,
when he would banish the monsters?
When did they switch our guard dog,
for a sack of bones?
And now, wish your hateful wish,
upon some falling satellite -
'Please let Daddy be
quiet.'
I actually mean this one. Never thought I'd write a 'Daddy poem' but there you go.
Friday, 3 September 2010
Untitled (Passage)
Were you expecting the dust to have settled?
Would that make you feel better?
But no. The gears have continued to turn.
Your new angles lend to familiar rooms,
an unnerving shape. The shape of age.
You're not the only one to grow.
The ivy has grown. Curled around the house.
It has grown. It has been cut back.
It has grown. It has been cut back.
All that once was is still.
These are processes that do not need you.
And now. Slowly. You realise.
All of your friends are now hairdressers.
Would that make you feel better?
But no. The gears have continued to turn.
Your new angles lend to familiar rooms,
an unnerving shape. The shape of age.
You're not the only one to grow.
The ivy has grown. Curled around the house.
It has grown. It has been cut back.
It has grown. It has been cut back.
All that once was is still.
These are processes that do not need you.
And now. Slowly. You realise.
All of your friends are now hairdressers.
Sharing/Selfish/Silence.
Land was years back,
and it's getting hard to,
differentiate between the blues.
The upper blue,
the lower blue and,
the inner blue -
the hardest blue.
You've rocked between the strongest winds
ridden the largest swells,
plumbed the trough,
but come up – dripping
and victorious.
But when will you remember?
That there is someone else on the boat.
This is about a thing. Not sure what. A sort of sentimenty thing.
and it's getting hard to,
differentiate between the blues.
The upper blue,
the lower blue and,
the inner blue -
the hardest blue.
You've rocked between the strongest winds
ridden the largest swells,
plumbed the trough,
but come up – dripping
and victorious.
But when will you remember?
That there is someone else on the boat.
This is about a thing. Not sure what. A sort of sentimenty thing.
Wednesday, 1 September 2010
Double-Agent (A poem!)
I talked to you backwards,
through the newspaper,
all the right words in all the right places.
Putty.
And then you shuffled round -
wrong.
You talked quickly,
you looked like a ghost.
And I listened to every last,
snivelling protestation.
I was a mirror -whimpering in time.
The beat – that coward's pulse -
beats still,
I dance to the rhythm.
Once again - a not entirely serious poem. I can't write them - but I did enjoy this!
through the newspaper,
all the right words in all the right places.
Putty.
And then you shuffled round -
wrong.
You talked quickly,
you looked like a ghost.
And I listened to every last,
snivelling protestation.
I was a mirror -whimpering in time.
The beat – that coward's pulse -
beats still,
I dance to the rhythm.
Once again - a not entirely serious poem. I can't write them - but I did enjoy this!
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