Where logic goes to die

An Extract (from something I'll probably never write any more of...)

2012-01-15T18:53:00.001-08:00

‘I find the Sycamore to be the most melancholic of the trees…’ philosophised Francis, as sycamore keys fluttered to the ground near where he and Red were perched.

‘Why’s that?’ Questioned Red, on auto-pilot.

‘Because it sounds like the French “sick of l’amour”, “sick of love” – picture a tree so weary of the world that it is sick of love, we are sat beneath it.’ Expounded Francis, extending a Wildean arm.

Red sighed inwardly and escaped his friend's offensively poor wordplay by picturing the sycamore as a callous sexual conquistador, traversing the riverbank and fucking its way through the foliage. He saw as it tore its great roots from the soil and, trailing clods of earth over the ground, sidled casually towards a willow, stroking her canopy with one of his more tender branches.

She shudders, tenses and backs away a little. He persists, brushing one of her intimate boughs. Red sees her long, slender shoots shiver. She acquiesces and he slides a strong limb inside a tight knot on her trunk, and with another grasps a branchful of her soft leaves and pulls it taught. She gasps –

‘What’s going on?’ Asked Francis, as Red sat, glaze-eyed against the trunk of the sycamore.

‘I was imagining the trees fucking.’ Murmured Red.

Francis looked, in a way that he imagined was both quizzical and judgmental, at Red for a few moments before a wayward Frisbee caught him in the forehead, at which point he suspected they were probably on an even footing in the dignity stakes.

Wilberforce Scops

2011-11-13T05:02:00.001-08:00

(I've written this one about 3 or 4 times. I'm not sure why I persist. It's a very narrow premise. Anyway -here's the latest one.)

The sun was streaming into the waiting room. It warmed Wilberforce Scops’s back on that crisp autumn morning. He had been seated there for an hour, patients had come and gone, all sick-looking and nervous. Wil was nervous too. He fidgeted for a while then tried whistling, but soon abandoned this folly – it really wasn’t his sort of thing. He tried letting out soft little hoots every so often and found this more agreeable. He persisted with this for a while until a greying man with a zimmer frame asked him to stop.

Wil returned to fidgeting.

He thought about his coat for a while. It was thick and long, if he turned 180 degrees quick enough, it would flow behind him like a cape. He’d purchased it for his 25^th birthday as he wanted to be more enigmatic in order to impress a nice girl. It hadn’t worked. It didn’t even really fit, but then no clothes ever fitted Wil – he’d never been able to work out why.

Whilst he was engaged in this flurry of coat-thought, patients came and went – crying, smiling or blank-faced. Children screamed, old men guffawed, some of these guffaws morphed into unpleasant rasping coughs. Wil ruffled himself and frowned – he had now been waiting a considerable time indeed.

To pass the time he thought about the woods at dusk, but it was a stunted daydream – every creak of a chair raised him from his reverie.

At last he heard the right creak:

‘Mr Scops? Dr Findlay will see you now.’

Wil jumped up in such a hurry that he trapped the bottom of his coat under his shoe and stumbled a little. He murmured agitatedly to those around him and shuffled to the doctor’s office.

The doctor, seated on a swivel chair, had a rumpled brow – suggesting a level of consternation with which Wil was not at all comfortable.

‘Have a seat Mr. Scops.’ The doctor said, indicating to one of those chairs that always looks more comfortable than it is. Mindful of this (he’d been stung by this sort of thing before) Wil perched himself gently.

The doctor swivelled to fix Wil directly with his gaze and made a conscious, and very obvious, attempt to straighten out his frown. It didn’t work.

‘Mr. Scops, we have the test results…’ began the doctor, pausing in order to inject tension, ‘we have the test results and they’re not exactly surprising.’ The doctor now began fiddling with some paper.

Wil switched his weight from side to and shook a little.

‘Mr. Scops, there’s no easy way to tell you this. You’re an owl.’

Wil’s face fell. He hadn’t expected this.

‘I really don’t know how you didn’t notice.’ Said the doctor, unable to hide the slight incredulity in his voice.

‘Hoot?’ Hooted Wil, stunned.

In Chilham (Curtailed)

2011-11-09T17:24:00.000-08:00

It tastes of ale and rain.
And words, burning my mouth.

We came upon the death of an unknown,
Paid our respects and sheltered.
We felt akin to the stable stone.
Look at us! Unshakeable as a church,
We can shelter the dead,
Come everyone, we’ve got love -
Enough for all.

Afternoon will find us entwined on the bank,
not daring to kiss.
Daring not to kiss?

It tastes of ale and rain.
You don’t.
You taste of won love.
Of stolen love.

TEMPUUS (The Award Winning...)

2011-10-23T09:57:00.000-07:00

Joint winner of the 2011 H.G.Wells Festival Short Story competition. Got me a novelty over-sized cheque and all! Have a read and be safe in the knowledge that if you don't like it you are now officially wrong (although I do think the ending didn't come out as I wanted. In my head there were more dinosaurs.)

A fog hung in the air obscuring the moon and lending an indefinite, silky cloak to the street-lamps. The occasional drops of rain skittered across the surface of the car-park puddles and I danced through them with all the grace of the drunk I was intending to become. I had slipped into the car-park round the side of the budget supermarket with the intention of taking an illicit, back-street route to the Wetherspoon's free house. I had no illicit, back-street concerns to tend to, but I found that taking such a route gave me a little thrill.

As I skipped towards the alleyways I was so looking forward to, I noticed a strange glow surrounding a crumbling doorway, which, as far as I was aware, led into a disused cinema. I walked a little closer and focussed my ears and began to hear voices from within. I felt a strange sensation which I had not felt for a long time: the feeling that something, in this very grey town, was actually happening. I'd yearned for some kind of Haight-Ashbury happening for so long, that now that one seemed to be doing just that, I was unsure how to go about involving myself. The first step was the one which took me just beyond the threshold; with this taken I continued inside.

The passage was lit solely by the mysterious light that had drawn me to it, which was emanating from somewhere further in. I turned a corner and found myself in what must have been the main theatre. The room itself was grand enough, with tattered curtains lining the walls and great pillars beside what previously had been the screen. The screen itself had been removed and revealed a stage flanked by more fraying curtaining and displaying at the back a wilting banner declaring this to be 'Backstreet People's Theatre'. It struck me how few of the 'people' were here. The stage, as with the rest of the room, was lit by a curious mixture of portable lamps and candles and had, in its centre, two figures. The shorter of the two was a boy, no older than ten, who had a grubby face and wore the curious combination of a plain grey, ripped t-shirt and shorts, and a vibrant mock-native American headdress. The taller of the two was a strikingly beautiful woman, she had impossibly long black hair, which I followed with my eyes down to her long black dress and further still down to her feet, dirty from the dust on the stage. She stood a little ahead of the boy with her back to him, a look of icy contempt on her face. Then the boy spoke:

SCENE ONE

'O, Helena, witch-queen,

My father, the lion, has caught a sickness,

he's rotting from the inside.

His mane has fallen from his neck,

and his teeth are made of marshmallows,

and his claws are blades of marram grass,

and his voice is as feeble as the chirp of a bird.

Please, Helena, make him some medicine,

some hot potion and bring him back to pride!'

Whilst I was aware that this was theatre I was still struck by the boy's boldness – I could surely never show such strength addressing such an imposing woman. Having heard his speech she wheeled around, her impossibly long hair scything through the air, reminding me of a whip. She turned back to face the audience, whom I had now counted and numbered around six.

'Tell me boy,

did your lion chase away the monsters,

wrestle the hyenas

and banish the bad dreams with a roar?'

'Yes ma'am,

he would make us feel safe as if we were at the bosom of God.'

'Ah, child,' Helena sneered,

'So did my father,

but they must all die,

and every little cub must be cast, alone, into the world.'

The boy began to weep and ran off-stage. The curtain fell with a smattering of applause from the tiny audience. I had only one thought at this moment: this could not be the end, surely. The piece reminded me of my own father who was, at this very moment, shuffling off his own mortal coil and going gentle into that dark night.

Having lost myself in these thoughts I had failed to notice that the cast were emerging from the wings and chatting with the audience, and the witch was making her way towards me. The first thing which struck me about her off-stage was that she was without her immense black locks which had been replaced by significantly shorter auburn hair barely reaching her shoulders.

'Hello there, I see you've managed to stumble upon our little gathering.' Her voice was lacking the harsh edge that had marked her performance but retained the sophistication of the stage.

'Yes, well, I noticed the light you see. I was going to the pub but...' I was stammering and didn't really know why. 'What do you do here and what's the piece?' I finally managed to finish although my speech was lacking any vestige of charisma I had ever possessed.

'Well, presumably you've already worked out we're a little independent theatre company, so the first question is a little silly don't you think?' Her voice wasn't charged with indignation and I was about to affirm that 'yes, it was a little silly', but she continued quickly with a smile. 'The piece, however, is a little odd so your ignorance is forgiven there. It's a modern reworking of an old African myth. It's a study of maturity and loss.'

Normally I would have considered this a little pretentious but having witnessed the performance I had to admit that I was struck by the feelings it had managed to excite in me; but I still had one question...

'That surely wasn't the end though, was it? I mean it...didn't seem like a resolution.'

'No, of course not!' She smiled for the second time in the evening and I felt a little flutter. 'Even in our less than desirable venue the room hire is too high, we can just about get two hours a week. There's not a lot we can afford when we're selling about three paintings a month between the lot of us!'

I sighed, I knew this sentiment all too well, I was still living at home with my father having failed to interest anyone in my poetry – which I had been convinced was my vocation as a boy and had now given up writing. She turned to speak to some other patrons.

'Sorry, I didn't catch your name. ' I blurted instinctively.

She turned, her new, less imposing hair bobbed and caught the light pleasantly as she did so.

'I'm Edie, and what little there is here is mine!' With that she left me alone.

As I would discover from mingling with the other audience members and players, the company was mostly made up of, and patronised by artists from the nearby creative quarter who, having found themselves washed up in our town by the coast, now hungered for the visceral and the avant-garde interests more prevalent in the cities.

After a short while we were required to vacate the premises and I watched as the artists dispersed across the car park, returning to little studio flats, presumably to smoke and listen to compilations of The Cramps in the soft, angle-poise lamp-light until the early morning.

When I returned to my house the lights were off and there was no ethereal glow guiding me inside. Still, I jangled my keys in the lock and stepped in. The house smelt of illness. I considered how, in one short step, one split second moment, someone can change tense from an 'is' to a 'was'.

Upstairs my father groaned and turned in his bed. I cursed silently. He'd been groaning for months now. I could see his pain but this didn't make tolerating it any easier. Then I cursed myself for thinking this. How can you blame a dying man for not wanting to die?

As I returned to my room the groaning and creaking continued. I began to write a poem:

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 his blood.

They must be drowning in samples.

'Watch – boy.

Watch, as your lion,

toothless, clawless,

struggles after the pride.'

Now, stumbling slow,

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 I wish this hateful wish,

upon a falling satellite -

Please let Daddy be

quiet.

Interval

A few days later, I was wasting the afternoon strolling through the creative quarter wondering which coffee bar to spend my money, in when I saw Edie across the cobbles chatting to a man selling fruit. She was dressed much more plainly than on our last meeting but retained her unusual beauty. I stalled for a moment, waiting for her to finish talking to him. She soon did and I scuttled over.

'Hi.' I began, but I was drowned out by the market trader who had begun barking the price of his wares once again.

'Sorry?' She said, cupping a hand to her ear.

'Hi.' I repeated, blushing.

'Oh, sorry, I thought your opening gambit may have had a little more pizazz than that!'

'I live to disappoint.' I mumbled.

'I'm sure you have some worth, I just haven't worked out what it is yet.' Her remarkable frankness left me a little stunned and I was unable to respond before she continued, 'you look a little at a loss. Let's have coffee.'

I nodded dumbly and we strode into the nearest overpriced coffee outlet.

At the counter I ordered 'one of that', pointing to the item with the most lengthy and hyperbolic description on the menu. Edie ordered something else with a similarly continental name.

We sat on a sofa, misshapen in a fashionably modern way and the conversation began in a stilted manner, however once we had drinks to fill the pauses things became easier. We talked of her theatre and the arts in general. She enjoyed Klimt's use of colour and thought that Patti Smith was the most powerful woman who had ever lived. She was currently reading The Bell Jar and had a loathing for Oscar Wilde who, she said, had plagiarised the majority of his most famous witticisms from other, more discrete dandies.

The pace of the afternoon changed as we continued to exchange passions. I extolled the virtues of Jimi Hendrix's 'Electric Ladyland' and I failed spectacularly to pinpoint the source of my infatuation with the pathos of Vonnegut. I described a misty J M W Turner scene which had caught my eye and then became misty eyed over a short film I had seen featuring two underground comedians as washed up folk musicians. Before I knew it it was dark outside. Edie looked at the litter of coffee cups we had accrued.

'How about something a little stronger?' She had a mischievous look on her face and I decided it would be rude to let such an expression go to waste. Moments later I found myself, at last, several days late, in Wetherspoon's free house.

As the beers flowed we felt our tongues loosening further.

'The last man I loved was also the worst playwright I have ever met.' Edie volunteered.

'Oh yes?' I asked, eager to hear about this pathetic dolt who could ever imagine himself worthy to be loved by such a wonderful woman.

'Yes, we ended up putting on one of his works in the theatre. It was a half an hour long piece about time. First of all he called it 'Tempus', then he decided that wasn't high-brow enough so he added an extra 'u'. I'd say the promotional flyers for 'Tempuus' were probably the most vandalised posters in town that year. What's worse is that he made us perform the same piece three times in a row to 'represent the cyclical nature of time and how everything would repeat itself and we'd all make the same mistakes',' she mimed inverted commas and rolled her eyes for the last bit and I laughed, 'still, I loved the idiot. He loved to be troubled though, he'd always sabotage his own happiness.' She sighed, I sighed. A couple of lads wandering past our table noticed and made exaggerated sighs themselves then laughed.

'The last woman I ever loved,' I slurred, 'was the most beautiful girl on Earth, damn talented too. She had this...hair,' I mimed someone having hair, much to Edie's amusement, 'it was great.' I concluded. It was true, she had been great, but whenever it came to explaining why I was always completely lost for words, it seemed as if nothing would do justice to such a pure adoration.

At that moment my revelry was interrupted by a small bit of dribble creeping down my chin. Edie wiped it up with a napkin and collapsed into fits of giggles.

Soon closing time came around and we stumbled outside occasionally seeing fit to lock arms. I agreed to walk her home. As we arrived at her door I recited one of my poems for her. She listened attentively with her twinkling eyes fixed on my face. When I finished she told me it was rubbish and kissed me. Then she told me it was good and invited me inside.

For an hour we kissed and listened to bootlegs of '70s Nigerian funk bands then we went to bed.

I awoke to the sun shining through the window of her bedroom, my head was spinning and it took me some time to see Edie perched on the side of the bed clutching a cup of tea. I looked at her and smiled a weak, slightly awkward smile.

'Did we-?' I began.

'No,' she smiled, 'you said something about not wanting to be drunk, I concurred, said you were sweet and then we went to sleep.'

'That sounds uncharacteristically responsible of me.' I laughed.

'If it makes you feel any better you did smash a plate.'

'Good.'

After a cup of tea and an alka-seltzer I dressed, kissed Edie goodbye and headed home.

When I arrived the curtains were still drawn and I entered to find my father sitting in his rocking chair. He fixed me with a solemn stare which packed both pain and disapproval.

'You were supposed to be home to cook my soup and make my bath and change my dressing.' His bottom lip quivered. I felt a pang of guilt stabbing at my stomach.

'Shut up you old buffoon, I'm allowed to have a good time. You should learn to do something for yourself.' I snapped and immediately hated myself for doing so. He turned away from me and I stormed from the room.

SCENE TWO

A few days later I found myself seated in the theatre once again. This time I sat with the other 6 audience members. Three men, three women, four beards, two waistcoats, all covered in paint. Normally I wouldn't find myself in the vicinity of such people but having shared the experience of the last performance I felt as if I belonged and I waited with a little tingle of anticipation.

After a short wait the curtains parted and Edie emerged, this time she was without her great black wig – I later found out she had sold it to a group of fantasy role players in order to buy lunch.

'As I'm sure you're all aware,' she began solemnly, a look of disquiet on her face, 'since our government grant was axed we at the theatre have been extremely low on funds. It's only thanks to Janet selling her 'Deal or No Deal' themed triptych 'Three Studies of Figures at the Feet of the Banker' that we are able to put this night on at all.' A woman to my right nodded sagely.

'However the session will have to be curtailed, in fact we only have time for one more scene. So without further ado please welcome the Backstreet People's Theatre.'

With that she walked dejectedly behind the curtain. After she had gone the boy from the last performance entered, without his headdress, and an elderly man followed awkwardly. The two bowed slightly and the old man laid himself down on the grubby stage. Straining my eyes I saw that he had scraps of yellow felt on him and some vague charcoal whiskers scrawled on his face.

I sat and watched for the meagre half hour that we had through a film of tears as the boy and his father, the lion, wrestled with mortality. The boy explained to the lion that the witch would give them no medicine and that he had been to the man in the village who had given him something to make him better. The old man drank it and it was only water - the boy had traded his beloved headdress for water. They cried and shouted and the scene ended with the boy and the old man locked in a weak embrace. It was as if the child was hugging a hessian sack.

At that moment I knew right where I should be. I knew whose bedside I should be at, I knew whom I should be comforting and I knew whom I should be caring for. I left the theatre speaking to no-one – some things were more important than pleasantries.

As I ran home I resolved to make up for every time over the past few months my patience had lapsed and I'd snapped at the man staring right back into the waning light of life. I would make these last few days or weeks a paradise – after all I had so much for which to thank him.

Upon arriving home the door to the living room was closed and I would have been certain that the old man was in bed had there not been the conspicuous lack of the groaning and creaking that had characterised his sleep for some time now. I ran upstairs to his bedroom and found it empty. My body grew cold and I walked with growing anxiety back down the stairs and to the front room. I paused at the door, drawing a great breath. When I did finally open the door I was greeted by that which I had feared. Slumped in his rocking chair was the old man, his head slumped back and his mouth gaping in a grotesque manner.

I edged towards him, my body alight with tension and terror. I touched his forehead and found it cold. At that very second all feeling left me. I stood, frozen and alone beside a shape that was no longer my father. I walked away, shut the door behind me and went to bed.

I called the relevant authorities in the morning.

Interval

The next few weeks were like dust on the wind – if you had looked closely you'd have seen that a lot was going on, but you're not looking closely and you don't really notice. Many people passed as particles and whispered a litany of condolences, cards piled on the doormat and messages flooded the phone.

At first I tried going to the shops and going to the bank and engaging in the cult of routine that keeps small town life ticking along, but it soon became clear that all the mundanities of life which my father had navigated easily were littered with rocks to stumble upon. I understood little of finance and could scarcely plan a meal for myself. It was troubling to realise how much the old sea-dog could've taught me had I listened.

One day, not long after, I was standing outside the supermarket, laden with shopping I had assumed I might require. I saw Edie across the road. I didn't want her to see me as the incompetent ghost I had become and I hurried to turn away. Unfortunately in my addled state I failed to see the kerb and tripped, spraying shopping and limbs across the forecourt. This was the sort of pathetic display that was guaranteed to attract the attention of a kind soul such as Edie. Sure enough, as I lay, sprawled on the pavement in a sea of broken biscuits, crisps and ready meals I felt her crouching down next to me and placing a soft graceful hand upon my aching back.

I turned myself over to face her. She smiled kindly and I winced as I became aware of the grazes adorning my face.

'You look like you could use some help.'

I nodded dumbly, and then winced again – my neck had seen better days.

We packed my things in silence and then, without needing to discuss it, retreated back inside the supermarket and bought tea from the in-store cafe. As I sat, slightly smashed, on the plastic seating I looked around at the bizarre cross-section of society displayed around me. I was struck by how people I would once have deemed healthy now all appeared to be sick. I pretended to wonder when this ailing pall had been dragged across my eyes but, of course, I knew.

Several moments later I noticed I had been staring right through Edie's head and she was gazing at me intently, her eyes glazed with a thin sheen of tears. I mumbled an apology and looked into my tea.

'I can't even begin to imagine how you feel.' She said, eventually.

'Neither can I.' I replied petulantly.

We sat in silence again for a long while. I stirred my tea and watched galaxies of bubbles swirling, existing and then winking back out of existence leaving only a yawning brown nothing. I heard some sniffing from across the table but couldn't bring myself to raise my neck let alone my voice.

'The theatre ran out of money before we could finish the piece. No-one wants to buy Janet's 'Guernica in Colour'. Everyone has drifted away.' Edie croaked.

'What does it bloody matter? What does any of this matter?' I snapped, looking up and surprising and horrifying myself.

She stared back into my eyes, stunned, and I watched as all the shimmer of life drained from hers. She left without a further word.

SCENE THREE

A week later I met with my father's solicitor to discuss the small matter of inheritance. As it turned out I was to come into a not insignificant amount of money. I was well aware of how undeserving I was of such posthumous kindness and as I walked back home I considered giving it all to a cat sanctuary or something like that. Cats were given far fewer natural advantages to waste than I had been and were, I thought, deserving of a leg-up in life.

Back at home I sat, listless in front of a documentary about a singer-songwriter who had found his purpose and self-worth in music.

'I used to be an abuser,' he said, 'I would abuse the gift of life – women, drugs, alcohol - just for the sake of it. Then one night I found that I was not happy. I looked out of my window and saw that the moths caught in the gaze of the streetlamps played a bigger role in society than I did.' He was dreadfully aware of how poetic he was being, yet there seemed to be some sincerity in what he was saying.

'That's when I decided to turn to music. I tried to write about that which I knew and ultimately the only thing that I knew was that we were all here together whether we liked it or not. So why not try and make someone else's life a little better. A few days ago I received a letter from a girl who said she'd been saved from suicide by my song 'Venus (Step Off Your Half-Shell and Live a Little), and for me that justified everything I had been doing.' He smiled meaningfully at the interviewer, then his expression changed:

'And I think it's terrible that fewer people are going to be able to make this difference if the government continue with these absurd cuts to the ar-' At this point I switched off. I was in no mood for politics. Nevertheless there had been something profound in what the man had been saying. It was on this thought that I dwelt as I went to sleep.

And I dreamt. It was a dream of a cliff on a stormy night, it looked over into a raging sea and, wrecked on the rocks beneath, was a ship. There were many people splashing helplessly. Then Edie was there and she lowered into the sea a rope and called to the survivors. As I studied the rope closely it was clear it was made of books – plays to be exact – 'All My Sons' was linked to 'Rhinoceros', 'Rhinoceros' to 'Waiting for Godot' which linked to 'Twelfth Night' and so on all the way down to the water. I watched stunned as everyone was saved. Edie turned to me and made an expression that simply said:

'See.'

I awoke, basted in sweat. I was shocked that my imagination could be so blunt. I would've preferred subtle guidance, delivered through elaborate metaphors, instead I got the spiritual equivalent of a note, attached to a brick, hurled through my window.

I rang Edie the next morning and stated my intentions. I would put my inheritance into the play. We would stage a great performance of her piece on the sea front. We would make a grand day of it. All the artists would come and all the real people would come and we would revel in the struggle of one lowly cub to beat a callous society and in doing so, beat death. There would be music and there would be cheering and dancing. After all – we're all in this together so why not try to make things a little better for each other. I opted not to credit the songwriter with this sentiment, deciding that whilst it was profound, it was also, now I thought about it, incredibly obvious. Last of all I begged her not to tell me how the piece was intended to end. I would find out on the day.

And after weeks of banner making work shops and planning meetings the day finally arrived. My personal gift to the people. A carnival to celebrate life. I peeked from behind the curtain and saw a great many people laid out in front of me. I smiled, I think, at this point it had been such a long time since I had smiled I was unsure what one felt like. I went out onto the stage and briefly praised Edie and the 'Backstreet People's Theatre' and finally dedicated the performance to my father. I felt myself begin to weep. At first it was a trickle, then a river and then a flood. I bowed and ran back behind the curtain and as I did so I felt a great relief. Weeks, months – maybe years of tension – relaxed. How long had I been an over-wound clock with the pressure straining my cogs and weakening my springs?

I took my place in the wings and waited. I was desperate to see how the show would end. This venture which had once seemed trivial to me was now central to my existence. I sat, with my hands clasped together, praying for a satisfying resolution.

KS

2011-10-06T07:26:00.001-07:00

Solomon sat, slumped in his large throne, like a petulant giant. With his large hands, large, neat beard and broad (large), never-ending chest, he reminds me of the Reverend Jack Lawson who I know from now. King Solomon, sat, slumped in his large throne.

King of who? I don’t know. I am a disciple of stories half-told, half-remembered, and this is one.

On the walls there are great (large) tapestries depicting something momentous, yet indistinct. On the floor there are vast (large) rugs (Persian?), plush underfoot – reminding you of their wealth and your lack. KS is swaddled in robes of deep crimson, like a regal baby (large). He sighs once or twice. You’d think that such a giant’s exhalation would ruffle the torch flames and worry the tapestries, but the hall is so great that his breath has petered out by the time it reaches them. They remain untroubled.

From the large (large) oak (?) doors at the far end of the hall comes a commotion, then a tall, gaunt Arab (?) man, with a shock of black hair placed clumsily atop his tall, gaunt head. As he strides towards KS, they both calculate when would be the appropriate point in his approach to acknowledge one another. The tall arrival loses his nerve and fires his ‘Hail! King Solomon of the…’ too early, leaving him with an embarrassing distance to walk before the conversation can be furthered.

As he arrives before the throne KS greets him as ‘David’ and bids him state the purpose of his visit to the chamber.

‘There are two whores arguing in the entrance hall. They are disturbing your servants.’

KS groans like a weary stomach, overfull, stretched.

‘They demand that they be permitted to enter so as to decide the parentage of a sprog sired by a cotton trader.’ (?) Continues David.

A large harpy squawk emanates from the entrance hall.

The echoes decay quickly in the hall but remain ringing in KS’s ears.

‘Let the sluts in.’ KS decrees at last as his throne creaks beneath him.

David begins his long, gangly walk back to the doors and KS relishes the receding footfalls. Soon the hubbub will build, as a tidal wave of grievances, his adoring public, spill in bidding the judger judge.

‘I am a bad man,’ thinks KS, ‘why do they listen. Why am I the authority? Shut up.’

He slowly closes his eyes and sees a deep crimson. He is swimming in it. Gasping he rises to the surface and sees the harsh sun blazing in the sky. He imagines an eye in the centre. The eye fixes its gaze upon him, then looks a little to its right. KS follows the eye and sees, glinting in the distance a vast (large) blade scything through the crimson towards him. He shivers with simultaneous fear and elation.

With a mighty wrench the doors open once again and David ushers in the whores.

One is holding a baby wrapped in rags, the other is shooting hateful glances. David is stood between them, striking a messianic pose so as to prevent an altercation.

The whores give no consideration to the appropriate distance from which to address KS as they begin shouting almost immediately. Harlot. Strumpet. Cunt. Slut. Echoing many fervent ‘endearments’ from punters of that persuasion. It is explicit bingo and nobody wins.

‘Silence!’ Roars KS.

The women fall silent but the child, inevitably really, begins to scream.

KS holds his colossal (large) hands to his head and screws up his face. It looks like crumpled, aged, leather. After holding this pose for a while, he prepares to speak, mouthing a word over and over again. At last he speaks:

‘Speak.’ He speaks.

The cacophony begins again, however this time the enraged piece has greater depth. The screams of the child provide the backing whilst the harridan furious wails provide a coarse melody. Occasionally a percussive foot stamp is added. This echoes around the hall until KS’s head is swimming.

‘One at a fucking time!’ Shouts KS. ‘You first.’ He points at the baby-less whore.

‘This cunt stole my baby,’ she spits, pointing a shaking accusatory finger at the baby-holding whore.

‘That’s bollocks. He’s mine.’ Screeches the second whore.

‘She’s a girl.’ Intones the first, smugly.

‘No he’s not!’ Shouts the second, triumphantly unwrapping the baby to reveal the tiny child’s penis.

KS puts his hand to his eyes and sighs. The second whore still stands, showing off the nude infant like a prize. David looks visibly perturbed.

‘Cover the infant. He is getting cold.’ David says at last.

Somewhat reluctantly the whore covers what, in years to come, will become the child’s modesty.

During this time the first whore has been deep in thought. After some time she speaks:

‘Oh God!’ She squawks, ‘you’ve had my dear child for so long, I had forgotten his gender.’

The slanging match begins once again in earnest.

KS waits for it to die down. It does not.

‘If…’ He begins, slow and low.

He goes unheard.

‘If…if,’ louder, ‘if we are unable to uncover the…ownership…of the infant…’

Renewed shouting.

‘Then! Then we shall split him in half and both can have some.’ KS closes his eyes briefly and sees glinting steel (?). His pulse quickens. The baby ceases wailing and looks, expectantly towards KS, all of a sudden his curiosity has been piqued.

Briefly there is silence. The woman holding the now clothed infant bows her head and, at long length, begins to speak.

‘If that is your judgement, King Solomon, then she may have my child.’ Her eyes endeavour to conjure tears.

The second woman begins to smile.

‘A-ha!’ KS bellows, with all the enthusiasm of a veteran magician, performing the same tricks night in, night out, to an audience of half-dead, post-retirement couples, quietly resenting each other over bottles of red, on some cruise ship, waiting to rust on an uncaring ocean. Then, pointing to the whore holding the child: ‘you are the true mother of the infant and may keep it. Now get out.’

KS shuts his eyes. The glinting dagger recedes. The sun looks at him and he looks at the sun. ‘Well?’ he mouths.

The baby-less whore lets out an anguished cry, but turns to leave with the other. David stays. After some time and some footsteps and a creak they are out of the chamber.

KS’s eyelids slowly lift and the sun turns its gaze away. He looks at the expectant David.

‘They never let me cut the kid.’ He sighs.

A Word

2011-06-04T06:25:00.000-07:00

After all it is just a word,

But one which you have tried so hard

To convince yourself you’re in.

And now you’re clutching at the sides

To avoid being sucked into the vacuum,

Which gapes, beneath and outside.

And this is all the truth.

All the truth you’ll ever need.

The only lie is that you

Are I.

Whitton in the Sun

2011-04-26T02:40:00.000-07:00

A bridge describes itself

Amongst Whitton in the sun,

But the wheels continue to roll

And I have no time to investigate

Or understand the real arc.

There are words to suggest surrounding

But we are charging through

At terrible pace.

And I have no time to read

The lines

Of Whitton in the sun.

The Neuroses of the Joker

2011-04-05T14:49:00.000-07:00

Would they find it funny,
I wonder?
I long to feel their gales of laughter,
wash over me, like a blanket,
of mothers' love.
Would it be cutting too close,
to the proverbial bone?

I chance my arm.
'A paedophile raped him and he got AIDS',
I chirp, pointing.

Silence.

The victim's mother is horrified.
The school talent show may not have me back.

Full Moon/Venn

2011-03-24T17:41:00.001-07:00

Tonight, the sky is a venn diagram of us,
You are the sun,
And I, the moon,
There is no overlap.

In some brief eclipse,
We kissed,
And blinded the rubberneckers,
So ill-prepared for such a dazzling show.
I turned to look at you
And burned my retinas.

POEM: April

2011-03-24T09:57:00.001-07:00

April has come,
Does this mean I can too?

After the Orgy

2011-03-13T08:27:00.001-07:00

Margaret is furiously scrubbing,
It is now widely acknowledged
That the bacon was a mistake.

I sit, blind-eyed,
In the queue for the shower,
Whilst Dorothy pairs the socks.

I can still remember, Ryan,
Contorted, as at the base of the crucifixion,
I am never playing Twister again.

How?

2011-01-06T10:59:00.000-08:00

How do you resuscitate a cat?
How do you resuscitate a cat?
It had all seemed like fun,
but now the cat was done.
And Mary would be furious.

It would be months before she let you see a tit,
let alone anything else.
How do you resuscitate a cat?
Better yet -
how do you dispose of and replace a cat?

100 Word Story Contest

2010-09-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

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.

Walks Into a Bar

2010-09-11T05:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Lion

2010-09-09T14:44:00.000-07:00

'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.

Untitled (Passage)

2010-09-03T17:45:00.001-07:00

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.

Sharing/Selfish/Silence.

2010-09-03T17:33:00.000-07:00

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.

Double-Agent (A poem!)

2010-09-01T17:43:00.001-07:00

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!

A form of therapy

2010-06-26T16:11:00.001-07:00

Standing, perhaps leaning, on the lighthouse. Looking to the sea and the cloudfront, those wave-forms, heading in land, wrecking ships and moving on. Brings with it a lady, crabby and unsympathetic and who else? Ahh! A Mutt (R. Mutt? Nonsense). Yes. Running along, gambolling, but, we forget, you're a pussy, aren'cha! Are you screaming? Are you really screaming? Yes. You are, you're screaming and my doesn't it sound genuine – this is no horror-film-darkened-room-chiller-mumbo-jumbo – this is the good stuff! The real deal, ma frien'! And the little feller's runnin' at'cha and you know (she says you know and dammit does she know!) he ain't gonna hur'cha, you silly boy. But he's snappin' at your shins and it sure looks like he's gunna hur't'cha! Evasive action? You bet'chur'ass! Whatever's to hand will do, cricket bat, rock, stick? Hit that little fucker, smash him for all you've got. That cunt gunna be a fuckin' paste when I'mm'a finished with'im.

He was only playing, surely, only fucking playing.

We're only playing ma'am, we're only playin'. It's pretend adrenaline, pretend blood!
And that little ditch in the ground? We'll that's yur pretend fuckin' dog. He's playin' dead.

The Crab (or Under The Rug)

2010-06-07T16:29:00.001-07:00

Did I see you smile,
under the rug?
Some gentle ripple
a simple stitch in love.
But it's hard, that half-day,
when the most-of-you has gone away.
And you gift me with a shell
and promise you'll be back - some day.
But you can't promise-precise
and we're on that stilted precipice,
just waiting for the wind
and talking slow and low, but!
Look and see, it's also a beach, waiting for the sea
and you, prodigal hermit, return to your shell. Well.

Prologue - A Cat's Tail's Tale

2010-01-20T12:11:00.000-08:00

Banishment hurts, whether it's from your country or from your house, for an evening, because you needed to train your claws. A need, yes a need, but not a need you need to take out on the furniture! Get out.

Cromwell got out. Out onto the dirt track that the shack looked forlornly onto. What was a mere kitten to do in the village at night? Cromwell knew well what he was to do and headed for the pond. From his vantage point, concealed in the reeds, he watched as the ripples and their masters flitted here and there – he was going to bring them to their knees. The ripples disturbed the twin of the engraver's house and they disturbed the twin of the moon and soon, soon, they were disturbing the twins of Cromwell's reeds and he knew the time was here. A swift swipe later the air was alive with screeching and fevered quacking, but soon the duck was on the bank and subdued and rasping for breath under Cromwell's weight. They looked each other in the eye. The duck opened its bill to speak, but Cromwell lifted a claw to his lips and the duck gulped and stayed quiet.

Cromwell knew the other ducks were watching, quivering by now, so he took a playful, theatrical swipe at the duck and stopped just short of its face. Then he turned his head to the pond and grinned his practised grin - menacing and just a little more than that of a cat.

“Stop!” Cried a voice from further up the bank.

Cromwell jerked his head to see who was attempting to halt his fun and soon he focused on the frame of a boy of no more than 6 – Buckle, the engraver's boy.

“Stop you bad, bad, bad, bad cat! I'll tell my Dad and he'll tell Old Mr Kemp and you won't get any tea for a week. You won't!” Shouted Buckle, a notable quaking in his voice as he hoped Cromwell wouldn't detect his bluff.

Your father wouldn't be able to stay sober long enough to even hear the whole of your pathetic little complaint. Thought Cromwell and, to prove his indifference to this challenge, ran a claw down the duck's neck, digging it in just far enough to extract a muted quack of pain.

Buckle now looked visibly very upset and Cromwell was satisfied that the boy would be wailing to his father in a matter of seconds and so turned his attention back to his captive. However, Buckle had gained a lot more confidence since their last stand-off and in seconds was on the cat with a branch which one of the trees had seen fit to discard. Buckle was no fighter and so his thrashing was driven by desperate energy and the lithe cat managed to avoid all but a blow to the tail – but this was enough. Cromwell scampered away from the duck and sat mewing in pain a few feet from Buckle. He looked at his tail – now bent at an angle a little before the tip, an injury he would carry for the rest of his life. He looked at Buckle and then back to his tail, tears filling his eyes.

Full of pity and guilt, Buckle walked over to the cat and bent down to inspect his tail. Suddenly, Cromwell took a swipe at Buckle's face, leaving him with three large gashes on his cheek which were soon weeping bright blood. They looked each other in the eye, Buckle now fighting back tears. Cromwell's eyes narrowed, then he mustered his finest indignant hiss and ran into the village.

And I didn't know if I should care. So I didn't.

This will be continued provided I don't completely lose all focus. Any opinions welcome!

Chetan and Chirag

2009-12-13T15:41:00.000-08:00

“The next stop will be Leytonstone. At this stop the last set of doors will not open and you must choose – your children or your dog?”

Hotcake stepped off the train amidst a flurry of no-one who wanted to go to Leytonstone. He strode through the empty station – why did contacts have to choose exclusively shit-holes for meeting places. He passed the ticket barrier and found himself in a corridor taking him to street level, the walls of the corridor tastefully decorated with mosaics recreating famous film scenes. He screwed up his face into various contortions of disbelief as he was confronted with bizarre tile reconstructions of the bomb-riding scene from 'Dr. Strangelove' and an oddly poignant rendering of the anal rape scene from 'Pulp Fiction'.

In a state of mental disarray, Hotcake arrived at street-level and on Leytonstone high road. After a forlorn look at his watch he discovered he was half an hour early. He strode powerfully, he was powerful in his long coat, up the street passing a disreputable Bureau de Change, a surly butcher and, looking small and afraid next to Gregg's the bakers, the most dilapidated shop he had ever seen. 'Chetan and Chirag useful empoureum' read the sign held above the door by some sort of gravity never previously encountered.

Compelled by confusion and – chiefly – boredom, Hotcake carefully grasped the decaying door and went inside. He had braced himself for bafflement but had not expected to be bombarded with it on such a scale. Once inside he was immediately confronted by a moudly, black, wooden counter and standing behind it two men, both staring at him with a mixture of delight and fear. Both were very thin with wild eyes and large beards. One stood around seven feet tall with gaunt cheeks and long hair falling limply and framing his long face. The other was still more puzzling – fully stretched out he would have been as tall, if not, taller than the other but he was bent almost into a U shape – upon seeing him, Hotcake immediately saw life from the perspective of this man's spine and felt sad and broken. The next most striking thing about the second man was his face – he had bought it from Albert Einstein and bought his eyes from party-Rasputin.

The straight man spoke first:

“He is Chirag.” He announced excitedly.

“He is Chetan.” Grinned Chirag.

“This is our shop.” Cried Chetan and Chirag in unison, throwing their arms in the air.

“We sell anything.” Said Chetan.

“BUT – most certainly NOT everything.” Warned Chirag, waving a stern finger.

The degree to which Chetan and Chirag prided themselves on the obscurity of their products would soon become delightfully obvious.

“Browse!” They barked together.

Hotcake walked, absorbed by wonder, to a shelf packed with boxes of varying shapes, sizes and states of decay. One small box that immediately caught Hotcake's eye proclaimed itself to contain 'Beaver Wax'.

“What's 'Beaver Wax'?” Enquired Hotcake.

“Have you a beaver which will not fit through the hole for which is was intended?” Asked Chirag in return.

“Then you need Chetan and Chirag 'Beaver Wax' for the least co-operative beavers, of all shapes and sizes!”

“I see. And what is this?” Asked Hotcake indicating a small spherical object with a point on the bottom.

“It is a pencil...” Said Chetan

“Shaped like a satsuma to remind you of satsumas for when you have none.” Smiled Chetan.

“And these, what are these?”

“They are glasses...” Grinned Chetan, waiting for Chirag to reveal their delightful hidden function.

“Glasses with pictures of sumo wrestlers on the inside lest you forget.”

“Lest I forget what?” Asked Hotcake, this latest proclamation raising his most fashionable eyebrow.

“Sumo wrestling.”

Further enquiries revealed, among other things, 'Weasel beards', a model of the Taj Mahal imprisoned within an almost unbreakable, opaque black box and posters for spiders to look at whilst they were waiting in their webs – "we think they are so lonely" sighed Chirag.

Hotcake found himself totally unable to leave the shop without purchasing myriad of products from his host, mostly because they were so charmingly oblivious or unconcerned with the incredible uselessness of their wares. He left clutching a tub of beaver wax, 'Peanut Ears' ('for the amusement of rodents') and 'Octosocks' – or socks for a stylish Octopus.

Upon exiting the shop he found he had missed his meeting by a whole hour and so promptly hurried back to the tube station and soon found himself back on the platform. A train arrived (as they did and do).

“This is Leytonstone where you will marvel at priests.”

The train left with a growl which surprised even itself.

An Exercise in Bathos

2009-11-10T14:40:00.000-08:00

'This could change our fortunes, you know. In the great conflict. He will be pleased.'

'Yes, sir, the Straight Line Machine is indeed a feat of engineering. A monument to our culture.'

'Of course I will have to see a demonstration before I report it to Him.'

'Yes, naturally sir. It will be my pleasure.'

We are to be prepared for a display of sublime elegance, unparalleled eloquence of movement, the captivating fusion of delicate human intellect and calculated, mechanical, brute force.

The machine was switched on

A deep rumble filled the hall in which it was housed. It growled, reverberated and finally roared into life. From the side one could see cogs and gears turning, seemingly melting into one another and then reforming with all the arrogance of purpose. Full of Trojans, it creaked and groaned under the weight of its own importance. The gears stepped up their turning, faster until they were a mist of technical brilliance. Great lights flashed from within, visible through glass panels seemingly put in place simply to boast – look what we have to show you. Backed by its earnest belief that it was all there ever need be the machine ground to a halt. Complete.

After it had finished they rushed to the back and to a hatch which lived there. With a hint of smugness, a smaller noise began – a lazy hum of half-work.

The hatch which lived there gurgled open for deliverance. What would come – commandments, wheels, that Greek fire, guilt, sin, judgement?

Paper. Adorned with a single straight line. Thick, black, purposeful. Knowing.

'This, sir, is what we are. For all our bluster, for all our shouting, laughing, our wars, our peaces, our self-satisfaction, grooming, cosmetics, cars, toasters, coffee machines, laws, principles, enforcement – after all He or anyone has ever done we are still this -' he paused for breath.

As he did, more copies of the line flooded from the hatch, littering the floor, staring upwards, impassive.

'Yes – this.' He continued. ' The same thing, on different pages – and all those pages of no value.'

'You will be shot for this, you know.'

'I know.'

Lovingly constructed in the Tate Modern with the aid of a box of darkness

Untitled (Elgar)

2009-06-09T15:13:00.001-07:00

My name is Oliver Elting and I am in trouble. You can’t help me, I don’t think anyone can. This is between God and I now, I am making this record merely for the sake of posterity. Oddly enough, the only pen available is that of my uncle – the importance of this detail will become clear soon.

As in most stories, it seems best to start at the beginning, so, bowing to centuries of narrative tradition, then is when I shall begin. The beginning of this particular story was two months ago. I was at my family home in Little Wellbank, with my sister, Clarissa, her son, Dougal, and my mother, Mildred. I was in the garden with Dougal, who was and, thanks to my speedy intervention in matters, still is six-years-old. Being six, Dougal is and was still capable of being entertained by the kind of diversions I am wont to provide. I like people who don’t tire of me and his unassuming company was a great comfort. Since the loss of Father some seven months earlier I fraternised with few over the age of ten. Dougal was busy giggling at something particularly clever I was doing with a large glove and a set of juggling balls.

Whilst this harmless fun was going on in the garden, Clarissa and mother were in the drawing room knitting scarves or cardigans – the garment is unimportant. I assume they were discussing cake-making or perhaps some little escapade of Clarissa’s husband, Ernest, or some other little slice of banality - I had stopped listening to them years ago. However, soon, a sound came to rouse my attention. A scream rose up – shrill and blood curdling - from the house and I dropped the juggling balls, much to Dougal’s displeasure.

As I ran into the house all sorts of ghastly visions of gore were flooding to my, what I am forced to acknowledge as somewhat diseased, mind – yet these visions were nothing to prepare me for the utterly bizarre reality which I was presented with. I stormed into the drawing room and found Clarissa slumped back in the arm-chair with her knitting needles plunged deep into her neck and a mess of wool draped all over her. Upon closer inspection it became clear she had managed to knit wool into her neck and wind-pipe – it was also obvious that she was very much dead. Mother was soon on the scene as well and sent me to run for the police in the village.

A few shell-shocked days later we were informed that the case had been dismissed as an unfortunate accident – a verdict I was happy to support as I saw no other explanation. Mother had talked me through the event leading up to one of the world’s first, and most likely last, fatal knitting accidents. In her high, thin and very shaken voice she told me she had popped out of the drawing room to fetch some more tea, leaving Clarissa, a capable woman of 30, working on the arm of a jumper for Ernest, seconds later the scream had echoed from the room and we had both come running. We found no evidence of an intruder and it seemed very likely that Clarissa had simply managed to knit a jumper into her own neck without noticing.

Two weeks passed as normal.

Then, Mother asked me to take a bottle of brandy to my Uncle. The Uncle to whom I refer was my Mother’s elder brother. He had always looked like an emaciated man of around 50, dressed elegantly but with a worn and cold face and a mess of greying brown hair. Yet the feature which stood out most were his eyes, they were set deep into his face giving them the appearance of unspeakable beasts peering out from some unholy grotto. These eyes also had a peculiar way of looking at you as if he were reading you more like a book than a person, you were a collection of descriptions to him as opposed to a human being. My Uncle was a killer. My Uncle was called Elgar Wintershaw. At this time I only knew the latter of these important details.

You may think it curious that Elgar requested a bottle of brandy as opposed to collecting his own, but I did not enquire as to why this was, as I knew that he had not left his house for the past 20 years on account of his hobby. It was this hobby which Mother bade me ask him about upon my arrival at the house. He is a lonely man, she said, do engage him in conversation about something – the history perhaps? I indicated that I would.

Let me explain. Elgar’s hobby was writing in superb detail the entire history of his family. I mean the entirety of it. It has only now become clear to me how thorough the man has been – but I’ll save that detail for later – I appreciate the value of with-holding information from the reader until the appropriate juncture. Mother was to be in there, Clarissa, Father, myself, Dougal and hundreds and thousands of others – the pages were saturated with intimate information.

As I was preparing to leave for Elgar’s grand house on the hill, Mother told me to take Dougal with me for some exercise. Since his mother’s death the lad had done little, his father was once again out of the country and whilst Dougal had seemed oddly unaffected by his mother’s death, he had become staggeringly bored. So, I left the house with my young friend Dougal in tow and told him stories of what a loathsome creep dear Elgar was. He lapped it up and was delightfully terrified by the time we reached the door of Elgar’s house.

I pushed the door open. It was Elgar’s custom to leave his door unlocked and ajar when he knew he had visitors coming – it unnerved them and helped him to create the atmosphere of foreboding that he fed off, like a cactus in a rainforest, swollen with water. I led a shivering Dougal to the room where I knew Elgar would be sat recording hundreds of years in immaculate script.

“Oliver, dear boy. I see you have my fuel! Couldn’t have come at a better time! I’ve been sober for weeks!” Elgar was always disarmingly pleasant upon first sight, but there was always the edge of a contemptuous sneer creeping into his mouth.

“Uncle Elgar, you remember Dougal…Clarissa’s boy.”

“Ah yes! Terrible tragedy…just knitted herself to death did she?” A ghost of a wry smile flitted across Elgar’s face

“Yes, I’m afraid so. But still, probably best not to talk about it in front of the boy.” I said, glancing Dougal-wards. For his part, the boy looked fairly non-plussed by the whole affair. Elgar’s initial friendly demeanour having entirely placated him. However, I knew to be on my guard as the man standing gaunt and malnourished in front of us was a highly intelligent, shrewd, borderline evil genius. Father had always been suspicious of him, a trait which I had inherited.

“Tell me of the history, Uncle, I’m keen to hear of your progress.” I simpered.
“Ah!” He jerked a little, both with surprise and delight. Perhaps he was not expecting my interest, but God did he revel in it. “Yes, the history! Oh it’s going delightfully, you know your great, great Uncle Terrence?”

“No. Never heard of him.” I said, possibly sounding a touch too bored.

“No neither had I until your mother passed onto me some delightfully decrepit old documents from the basement of Hembourne Manor. He was quite a character…” For the next hour or so – I lost track – Elgar regaled us with tales of the exploits of great, great Uncle Terrence. Every so often I would glance to Dougal, whose eyes grew deader every second as boredom permeated every atom of his being. For such a sinister man, Elgar’s conversation was wholly mundane.

“Well, gosh! Look at the time, such a fascinating character our Terrence was that the time has flown away from me. I must get back to work and I’m sure you boys best be getting back to your own abode. You can see yourselves out I’m sure!” Said Elgar.

Gladly Dougal and I made our way to the door of Elgar’s study, hope was flooding back to Dougal’s face.

“Oh, Oliver…” Called Elgar as I began to open the door of the study.

I turned to see him sitting behind his desk, pen in hand. A peculiar and wholly unnerving sneer had taken over his face, but after a second it disappeared and was replaced with a kindly smile.

“Could you tell me how to spell ‘weathervane’?” His eyes continued to hide deep in his face, looking me up and down like hungry wolves.

“Why certainly, Uncle – w e a t h e r v a n e.”

“I know.” He replied sweetly, with a sickening wink.

Dougal and I hastened out of the room very much unsettled.

The walk back to the house was mostly silent. Dougal dragged his feet in an endearingly petulant way. I admire such qualities in a boy. He demonstrates many of the attributes I had at his age. A certain arrogance and callous disregard for others. I’d like to think I’m the only one who can tame him – he certainly shares my distaste for the family’s one remaining woman; dear mother.

Suddenly he ran forward to chase a wood pigeon that had been foolish enough to get into his line of sight. My thoughts of Dougal began to sour – contempt for animals had never been a quality I’d valued, I certainly identified with them more than I did with his mother or his father. I watched as the pigeon took flight with a few soft coos of distress. It had wonderful plumage, far nicer than those of the London pigeons with their mangy feathers and malformed feet – this was a fine beast. Yet Dougal had seen fit to attack it? There must be some hateful edge to him that I had hitherto not seen. I contemplated this for the rest of the walk home.

Upon arriving at the house my attention was drawn to a fearful crowd gathered around the house. High pitched voices and shouting greeted my ears. Gripped by a sudden dread, I rushed to the centre of this crowd, leaving Dougal to linger silently on the edge.

What greeted me left me feeling astounded, furious and curiously weeping.

There, at the centre of the crowd, was my mother, lying face down in a growing pool of blood with the large cast-iron weathervane, which father and I had fixed to the top of the house, plunged deep into her back. I stood, stunned, for several minutes before turning to Father Gregory who was amongst the crowd.

“What on Earth has happened?” I breathed, surprised by my own calm.

“Well…oh Oliver…oh you poor boy.” He simpered like this for a few moments and I was unable to get any information from him.

“Pull yourself together man!” I roared. I was as taken aback by this outburst as he was. “Sorry Father, I’m just a little shocked, I’m sure you’ll understand.” I mumbled in apology.

“Yes…yes, Oliver, I wholly understand. Marjorie who was walking past the house when it happened, said the weathervane simply fell on your mother. Got her right through the back and that was it.” I listened and thought I detected a curious sadism in the priest’s last comment, but what did it matter? Mother was dead and that was the end of it.

Except, obviously as you dear reader have surely realised, it wasn’t. I had fixed that weathervane with father and it was thoroughly secured to the roof of the house, there had been no high winds recently and there was no possibility it could’ve fallen down by chance. But there it was – it must’ve fallen by chance. The house was still locked from when mother left it, no suspicious activity had been seen on the roof. And what sort of method of murder was it? Stabbing someone in the back from a great height with a weathervane.

Then I thought and I thought some more. Weathervane. Weathervane. Not the most common subject of conversation. Not a common object at all. Weathervane. By this time Uncle Elgar had been forced from my mind but the word brought my thoughts back to him – just as he had intended.

Days later I was still thinking about it – weathervane, Elgar. How? This was my prime concern – how? Then, gradually, a theory began to form in my mind. It was so outlandish, so preposterous, but still I had to check. I had to go and find out and that I did. If only for little Dougal’s sake.

And so, having locked Dougal in the dining room, somewhere that surely nothing could hurt him, I took father’s revolver and headed once more for Elgar’s house.

Upon arriving the door was ajar. I strode confidently inside, feeling it necessary to conceal the writhing fear within me – there was a pit of snakes in my stomach. I approached his study and prepared to burst in taking him unawares, but as I readied myself to kick the oak door down I heard a voice from within.

“Come in, Oliver.”

My dramatic entrance ruined, I feebly opened the door and stood before him. He was still at his desk, pen in hand, scrawling lazily.

“Ah, just in time. I’ve just finished the word ‘gun’ would you believe! Yet I do believe we’ve a few seconds to spare. Anything you’d like to know dear boy?” He leered ghoulishly from behind his desk.

“Weathervane…how?” I stuttered. Unable to come up with anything more fearsome.

“Well, oh I’ll delight in this part! I’ve been waiting for this for what must’ve been around 40 years.” Elgar was beaming maniacally, he took a few moments to light his pipe and swig some brandy before speaking once more. “As you well know, I’ve been writing this little history of mine for the best part of my life. It was a wonderful hobby – informative and time consuming, taking up the time that I never learnt to fill with the gallivanting of youth or women.

“Yet there was a problem – I was too hasty, too diligent. Before I knew it I had caught up with history itself. I was writing everything as it happened. So what was I to do? Rest my hobby? Find something else to do? Abandon my life’s work in favour of golf or some other filthy and trivial pastime? No! Of course not. Why, I just kept on going! And soon enough I wasn’t just writing up the family history, I was determining it. I gave my flesh and blood such great fortune – you remember your father’s promotion and all of those caches of money he seemed to find around the place? That was I, that was me. God. But soon benevolence grew boring, I wanted action – spice!

“So I killed your father. And I wrote the shockwaves it caused through the family, your disconnection and your gradual transformation into the introverted, conceited little heap that stands quivering before me. Oh you were marvellous fun. I wrote all of those sleepless nights you had and I wrote your little nihilistic rants to Dougal.

“Then your sister, of course I did her in. Even the woolly headed Clarissa wasn’t stupid enough to knit herself to death – she needed a little help with that. I just wrote it and it happened. A few quiet weeks of elation followed, but this had been 40 years in the making and I must confess I have grown tired. It weighs heavily on me now.

“So, what to do? I brought you to me, of course my little creation. I brought you with gifts of brandy. Oh, and how patronising you were trying to placate me with polite, empty enquiries about my work. So I bored you. I bored you well and then sent you on your way. Of course, I prepared a little surprise for you giving you the one hint I knew would bring you back here…

“Now, would you like me to do for young Dougal? Your hateful little protégé?”

I fumbled taking the revolver from my pocket. Elgar made no attempt to duck and I took several steps forward and shot him in the head. The bullet landed right between his deep-set, beady little eyes and he and his chair fell backwards.

Shaking, I walked over to the desk and began reading the parchment sitting on it. The descriptions were intimate – it read more like a novel than a distant account of the family’s fortune.

“Oliver rushed to his Uncle’s house. Fury coursing through veins corrupted by hate. Surging into his Uncle’s study he lifted his revolver, ready to fire. His Uncle gazed at him, resigned to his fate. Oliver let a shot fly and his Uncle slumped backwards.”

I was surprised by how the manuscript differed slightly from what transpired, but concluded that ultimately we were destined to follow what Elgar had laid out for us. On a spare bit of parchment I began to scrawl my own record of events, lest the police label me a murderer. I made sure all the details of Elgar’s own fearsomely disgusting character were recorded.

Then, feeling a sinking in my written-bitter heart, I read the last paragraph.

“Distraught at what he had become, Oliver spent several moments in silent grief. He strode shakily to his Uncle’s desk and looked upon his life’s work which laid before him. Then, as he calmly resigned himself to his fate, he lifted the revolver and fired. His now lifeless hand dropped the gun.”

“That last sentence really doesn’t work.” I thought as the bullet left the chamber.

A Cautionary Tale

2009-01-07T09:18:00.000-08:00

“Any fool with a decent internet connection can bring society to it’s knees”
- Oscar Wilde

In a basement somewhere in London a flurry of typing came to an end. Sat in the dark room, with only the light of the monitor a strange looking, green tinged man lit a cigarette, then got up and left – never to be seen again.

Weeks later.
Around Britain many families were sitting down to dinner. In other parts of the world they were doing whatever they did at dinnertime in Britain. Some of these families had turned on the television and some who did that had also tuned in to a news programme.

This is what one news programme said:
“Historians have uncovered evidence that the man heralded as the father of modern physics, Sir Isaac Newton, may in fact have been a wizard. Furthermore, it has been speculated that gravity may not be real and that which we take for gravity may simply be an echo of a vast spell conjured by Sir Isaac hundred of years ago. Historians have expressed concern about the coming of a time when Sir Isaac’s spell wears off and physics disintegrates into what they are calling ‘fib-matter’…”

At this point all televisions stopped working and the world went very silent. This, to many, was excessively eerie, but when this absence of noise was replaced by a growing rumbling all around the world, people began wishing that the silence would come back. Observant onlookers noticed black shapes in the sky.

---------------

Here’s how it happened.

Weeks earlier a boy, a gullible fool named Francis Sandwich, had been researching a science assignment. Now (this is something I say when I am going to instruct you on things you already know). In Francis’ day, in this day – in our day, the internet was a prime source of flawed yet easy to retrieve information. Whilst most researchers worth their salt would opt for more reliable sources, Francis was neither a researcher nor worth his salt. Whilst researching famous physicists Francis uncovered a detail about our dear Sir Isaac that he was previously unaware of. It was such a thrilling detail – or fact as he erroneously renamed it – that it immediately went into his presentation and he wasted no time informing his friends. Anyone who disputed him – and many did – he referred to the internet, because the internet didn’t lie.

By the end of the day this information had reached The London Gale newspaper. Now The London Gale was no penny-dreadful, it was a respected publication, and so, for once, it decided to corroborate its exciting story – and it called a historian.

Professor Wilbur Snelton answered the phone. Now. People are greedy. Professor Snelton was a person and he was greedy, and when he heard of this new groundbreaking discovery he was very eager to claim prior knowledge of it.

“Isaac Newton? A wizard? Yes, I had heard of this. Believe it or not it was me and my people who made this discovery. And, I can give you something which’ll give you an edge over the rags as well!” Snivelled Snelton, thinking on his feet, “What the other papers won’t know is that Sir Isaac liked his closer, wizarding friends to call him Necromancer ‘Doom’ Newton.”

“Get this into the morning edition!” Cried the editor.

Quarter of an hour later an assistant of Professor Snelton, Phillip Catchworth was running along Pleat Street in the winter evening darkness to the offices of The Anchor, a terrible paper with a curiously large readership that would pay for any old rubbish. Now.

The next morning the shelves of England’s newsagents were awash with papers proclaiming that gravity was to fail in ten years once Necromancer ‘Doom’ Newton’s (and in the case of The Daily Vanguard – ‘Newcram Answer Newstock’) magic had run out. The London Gale itself had wasted no time embellishing the story with details (or facts) about Newton’s middle eastern heritage and perverse sexual preference.

---------------

The rumbling continued. It was then replaced by a roaring, then a groaning, then a grumbling and then finally silence. As all these curious noises had been happening, a fleet of great grey spaceships had been landing around the world. Soon humanoid but distinctly alien aliens had begun marching in tens of thousands out of the ships. Expertly and peacefully they made their way through the towns and cities to the centres of government and began the well-planned takeover. They met little resistance, just astonishment – which, in times of great and absolutely astounding crisis was mankind’s default setting.

In the House of Commons a parliamentary aide approached one of the newly installed alien guards.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes?”

“Oh, are you using a translation device?”

“No, I have learnt English. We’ve had enough time.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Yes, you most likely do. I did explain.”

“It’s a human phrase expressing comprehension.”

“I know, but I’m a pedant.” Laughed the alien.

There were a number of exchanges like this going on around the world. In all of them the new rulers of Earth were displaying the same carefree sarcasm and unflappable nature. In the face of such calm and collected beings, frightened and irrational mankind stood no chance.

“So how did you get us?” Asked the plucky aide.

“We were always going to get you. We’ve been loitering for some time – watching, waiting.”

“Where?”

“Mostly around the hubble telescope. We liked flying in front of it and avoiding getting snapped. But you asked how did we get you? Well, as I said, we were always going to, we were just waiting until the time was ripe.

“And how did you know when it was.”

“When you were so cocky and stupid you’d believe anything you were told. In every one of your past generations there has been someone to challenge supposed ‘knowledge’, someone to question. These days, you’ve become too confident – too obsessed with congratulating yourselves. We’ve been setting you little tests and you finally failed.”

Somewhere in a semi-detached suburban home someone said:

“If only Newton were around now.”

Now…

INPUT

2009-01-03T09:17:00.002-08:00

The below two stories are the beginnings of two short stories I've had in the making for some time. As I'm a democracy, I'd quite like some feedback on these - whether they're worth continuing, what in them doesn't work and so on and so forth.

The first one posted is an idea I had sometime in November that was initially too similar to both 'Being John Malkovich' and 'Fight Club' as well as Jasper Fforde's 'Thursday Next' novels. So I did some tweaking, I have a vague idea of where it's going but no idea how to get it there, so any input on that one would be welcome.

The second one posted is an idea I've been toying with on and off for years exploring purposelessness, bureaucracy in a comic manner and making a lot of offhand jokes about imperialism. I feel it's now more promising than in its first skeletal incarnations which I wrote in about 2005, but once again I'd like anyone who is actually, by some fluke, reading this to tell me what they think is working and what isn't.

Thank you very much for anything you may or may not do or consider doing!

The Ministry of Facts

2009-01-03T09:17:00.001-08:00

Some hours after dawn on a winter morning a large, grand looking building in central London was awaiting it’s occupants. It sat patiently as buildings tend to do, and gradually workers started arriving. These workers were smart and purposeful, striding through the majestic lobby in their suits, some with briefcases. Soon the building was a hub of activity with suited men and women bustling all over the place, like administrative bees.

After a time a large executive looking, black car pulled up outside the building, out stepped another man in a suit. This one was tall and thin and looked perplexed. He had a kindly, permanently befuddled face and was accompanied by some other men, who looked altogether more together. Like the others, these men strode in through the open oak doors and through the lobby, which had lost none of its majesty.

These were the offices of a government ministry – the Ministry of Facts. This office was in charge of collecting and collating facts. Facts were and are a valuable commodity – a commodity which needed to be collected and collated and put into warehouses – or something. This was what the staff of the building understood of their task anyway.

The man from the car was Minister of Facts Howard Catswell. He understood his job just as well as his other staff – not very well. Nevertheless as a dedicated servant of the empire, he dutifully carried on doing his job, whatever it was. Yet he could never shake the feeling that what they were doing was either entirely the wrong thing or totally inconsequential – this is why he looked constantly pained.

“Any messages, Felicity?” He asked his secretary, upon reaching his office. Felicity Surbiton was the most diligent and informed worker in the entire office and thus had the position of least power, but her other attribute which rendered her unsuitable for a managerial position – niceness – meant she was pleasant and helpful to anyone who needed pleasantry or help.

“Just the one, Minister, Bernard wants to see you, shall I send him up?”

“Yes…yes, go on then.” Replied Howard absentmindedly.

Five minutes later Bernard Brufford, a man who, it was often joked, had beaten a walrus in a walrus lookalike contest, was harrumphing (a type of movement only used by walruses) his way into Howard’s office.

“Minister! Good morning!” Bernard roared jovially, his great, red cheeks firing out words like fleshy bellows.

“Good morning, Bernard. What did you want to see me about?”

“I’ve been given the job of introducing the new chap to our line of work, and I was wondering what you wanted me to tell him.”

“Just tell him what his job is and what we do, you know – the history of the Ministry.”

“Ah very good, yes, very good but…” He was about to ask ‘what do we do?’ but checked himself in time.

“Yes?”

“Nothing. I’ll introduce him to you later. Once I’ve shown him the ropes and all that, eh? Yes. Goodbye Minister!”

“Goodbye, Bernard.” Once the door was shut, Howard sighed heavily. Bernard was a lovely man, but pompous and blundering. Behind his back people called him Polonius after the rather bumbling character in Hamlet. The sort of criticism which would only be levelled at someone in an establishment primarily staffed by Oxbridge rejects.

Meanwhile, Bernard harrumphed down to the reception area and met the new chap. The new chap had recently been taken on to fill a place which someone had vacated. They didn’t know who had vacated it or what it was but it, apparently, needed to be filled. The new chap was called Redding Bardwick and was every bit as pompous as Bernard – they got on well.

“My name is Bernard Brufford, and you must be the new chap, eh?” Bernard guffawed needlessly.

“Yes, I am indeed – Redding Bardwick – pleased to make your acquaintance, Bernie. Can I call you Bernie?” Smarmed Redding

“No one else does, but why the hell not! Bernie it is!” Bellowed Bernard happily.

Following this exchange, Bernard and Redding spent around two hours bellowing, guffawing and sharing anecdotes about public school and polo. Once this happy time was up, Bernard ushered Redding to Howard’s office.

Someone Else

2009-01-03T09:15:00.000-08:00

I was groggy. Groggier than a depressed pirate. That’s a lot of grog. Yet I was comfortable. I started to look around and none of the objects around me seemed compelled to make themselves distinct, so my eyes left them to it. It was a very white and blurry place – and the sort of place where you get the impression you’re going to be there for a long time. Like a waiting room, or a queue in the bank. The sort of place that makes eternity shudder. Still, moving wasn’t exactly a pressing thing at that moment, so I allowed myself to drift back to sleep.

I permitted myself to have a dream. I was on a pavement. It was a pavement next to an exceedingly wide road, with more lanes than the mind can comfortably conceive. Across the other side of this obscenely wide road was a shop. The stop was glittering pleasingly, with a neon sign mounted above it. The sign wasn’t tacky, it was tastefully garish and almost frighteningly alluring. I felt drawn to it and all the wonderful sparkling shapes in the window, I didn’t know what these objects were but I was damn sure I wanted to own them. The road looked clear for miles around and I started to cross. I had to get to the shop. Suddenly, a rumbling! I looked down the road to see car after car after car all streaming towards me. I know how rabbits feel. One car knocked me into another and that one knocked me to another. And so on and so forth, were it not for the genuine terror, this sort of thing would’ve become somewhat tiring after a while. All the time the cars were bumping me further across the road, but the shop looked no closer. Another glimpse of headlight…

And I woke up. Hours had presumably passed. The place was blurry but a dimmer shade of white, like it was winding down to sleep. I felt momentarily smug, I had slept before the room. Then I reminded myself that this wasn’t really anything of a victory.

I noticed that next to me there was a brown shape. I looked at it intently to see if it would acknowledge me. It did.

“You’re awake.” It said
“I’d noticed.” I responded attempting to remember what terseness sounded like.
“No need for that.” It murmured. “Go back to sleep.” It commanded after a moments thought.

I was in no mood to argue and duly did so. I was again plagued by a dream, it was strikingly similar, only I was closer to the shop, and it did its best to glimmer and glitter and dazzle. I felt myself yearning to be there even more so. The road was a chilled turkey and the shop a grubby needle – to offer up a grim and tortured metaphor.

When I awoke again later, things had seen fit to further order themselves. Objects had discernable edges – I was in a hospital bed and the brown thing to my side was a man in a well tailored suit. This man was occupied with eyeing my weary face with a lazy and contemptuous gaze. I was oddly hurt, I had only just awoken and yet I was already a reasonable direction in which to send contempt.

“I take it you’ve some sort of problem?” I ventured to sigh.
“No. You have, however. I just thought I’d inform you.’ The man drawled with the uncomfortable stench of confidence around him.
“What?” I said, remembering incredulity.
“You’ve got a problem.” Said the man, getting up
“Do you usually behave like this?” I enquired
“No. Consider yourself a special case.” Spat the man as he strode from the room.

****

A few days later my body had sufficiently resolved whatever ailment had landed me in hospital and I was discharged. No one seemed eager to explain my particular condition and I had no real desire to find out. What did concern me, however, was my lack of any memories of my life whatsoever. Most other people appeared to have lives so I, not unreasonably I thought, had assumed that I too had one. Still, finding out what I could do again would be an experience.

New

2009-01-01T06:14:00.000-08:00

Happy new year one and all! This is a joint celebration as this is both my thirtieth post and the beginning of a brand spanking new year. Of course, we all know which of those is of more importance - soon a series of Booker prize wins will testify to that.

As with many years, I began this one quite drunk and in the company of giggling people, which was pleasant. There wasn't quite as much yelling insults and greetings down a phone as I would've liked but that's no big deal. I shall congratulate all of my good friends on reaching this fine year when I next see them.

Of course I am being somewhat presumptuous in assuming this year will be 'fine', but I'm feeling good and in the mood for rash statements proclaiming things I've no evidence for. For all I know this could be a lousy year full of bombs and pounds dying and fuel running out and so on - but right now who cares. Let's at least start on a high even if we may not end on one

GOOD WILL TO ALL MEN, WOMEN, ANIMALS, PLANTS, GEOLOGICAL FORMATIONS, METEOROLOGICAL PHENOMENA AND ANYTHING ELSE I MAY HAVE MISSED OUT!

Short Story

2008-12-31T08:19:00.000-08:00

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'

2008-12-27T16:02:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-15T13:25:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-09-22T10:36:00.000-07:00

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')

2008-09-07T12:51:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-07-29T13:18:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-07-05T13:12:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-06-19T13:57:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-06-15T14:08:00.000-07:00

“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

2008-04-28T13:53:00.003-07:00

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

2008-04-28T13:50:00.001-07:00

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

2008-04-28T13:08:00.001-07:00

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

2008-02-04T14:12:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-04T14:11:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-04T14:10:00.004-08:00

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)

2008-02-04T14:10:00.003-08:00

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

2008-02-04T14:10:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-04T14:08:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-04T14:05:00.000-08:00

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.