Giant’s eye view of Birmingham, a city of many peaks. I wonder what it would be like to be a gigantic being, striding through the streets and straddling buildings. Looking down at the denizens, I’d ask why the incessant need to keep building. Each new construction attempting to tower over previous ones. They will only have one answer.
“Because we are not giants.”
Memory is a strange thing. I can’t actually recall when I first read Philip Larkin’s The Mower (full poem at the bottom). I presume it was probably in school but then recollection of lessons are made murky by events outside of the classroom. I always feel a child’s development is in the playground not in front of a teacher. This is by no means a criticism of teaching. I have utmost respect for a profession that has inspired and motivated many children and continues to do so. But classroom philosophy isn’t the real purpose of this ramble, so I’ll continue with a bit more focus.
The poem has been on my mind a lot recently. Its simplicity and emotional force hits me with every reading and every time I hear it. This isn’t going to be a piece of literary criticism or an attempt to deconstruct each stanza. Such things tend to rip apart the essence of any poetry and reduces it to nothing more than meaningless threads.
I possess a rather tatty hardback copy of Larkin’s Complete Poems which I bought on Abebooks. I dip into it in the way someone craving salt and fat would dip into a packet of crisps. I’m not a connoisseur of poetry but the words seem to give nutrition. The Mower is the one poem that I always keep going back to. In simple terms, it’s about the guilt of hurting something by accident. But for me, it’s about the constant struggle to hold onto our positive human side. Instead of rushing through life grasping and mowing what is in our way, stop, acknowledge others who are traveling on the path called life and be kind. Such a small yet powerful word if we just took the time to understand what it meant.
Larkin has been described by many as a right-wing reactionary, misogynistic, depressing and other not entirely salubrious adjectives. Perhaps he was all of these things and none of these things but whatever the reality, I think that The Mower is the most human and thoughtful piece ever written.
(If you want to get a glimpse into Larkin’s character and poems, I recommend listening to Tom Courtenay in Pretending to Be Me).
The Mower
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be carefulOf each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
The tale of Lazarus could be seen as the first zombie story. Risen from the dead so that loved ones bereft of his presence could see him once more. Since then, unlike vampires, zombies have never really been depicted in a positive light until most recently with Warm Bodies (and probably with Bub in George Romero’s Day of the Dead). BBC3′s In the Flesh looks at the human beings behind the walking dead and avoids ever using the Z word.
The zombies in this programme are referred to as suffering with Partially Deceased Syndrome (PDS) and like all great sci-fi this is just a device to explore other things. The first episode sets the tone of a series that wants to confront viewers with the big topics: the nature of humanity, tolerance, religious zealotry and the effects of war.
Kieren, the main protagonist, returns home after being treated for PDS. His abstinence from human flesh and how his family deal with it is an experience of anyone who has had to cope with an addiction. The “cure” for him is to be given a daily drug that curtails his hunger. Once again, a reference to modern-day substance misuse treatments of replacing dependency on one drug with another.
In his hometown, there is a distrust of all things undead and especially by the HVF (Human Volunteer Force) who see themselves as war veterans who fought against the dead uprising while governments failed to do so. The leader of the town’s intolerance is a man of the cloth. A rather blatant critique that those who preach peace, love and understanding are not usually the ones who practice it. In essence, the main question that the series asks is who exactly are the monsters? In a scene involving Ricky Tomlinson’s character’s wife, it makes the strong case that it’s not necessarily those with PDS.
As someone who thought the BBC made a mistake in finishing Being Human, there are a lot of positives to be said about replacing it with In the Flesh. Let us hope that the series lives up to the very intelligent and entertaining start.
In a pet shop, that is no longer there, we saw a rabbit. He was on sale with other rabbits but in the way that animals have the tendency of doing, we focused on him and thought, ‘He’s the one for us.’ After leaving and returning to the pet shop on several occasions with the pretext that we were only looking, it was clear that he was coming home with us. So on 14th May 2005, Aslan the Lion Head rabbit arrived and it was clear that the little hoppity thing would become very special.
From the off, he wasn’t going to be in a hutch, at the bottom of the garden, forgotten about but in the home doing whatever a rabbit does in a drafty Edwardian house. I learned that a rabbit can be house-trained and that he was affectionate and a lot of fun to be with. It’s strange to think that writing these words is proving so very painful but that’s the thing with pets. They have a way of evoking the most positive emotions in a human being. I never would have thought that my cynical exterior would give way to concern, care, affection and yes, even love to a little white rabbit with a grey twitchy nose.
He had some health issues from the very beginning. Due to a congenital problem, his teeth grew at strange angles and so he had to have them burred every so often. But that wasn’t an issue and the trips to the vets were part of his routine. As was running furiously around the lounge, begging for treats and demanding to be fussed. He was never refused fuss or treats because he had special rabbit powers that mind-controlled us into giving him what he wanted. That’s my excuse for being a undisciplined bunny parent and giving in to his whims and demands.
A few years ago, he got GI Stasis. It was linked to his regular visits to the vet in order to get his teeth done. Rabbits are rather anxious creatures and so stress can cause the digestive system not to work as they should. He got through it once and made a full recovery. But he then started to get it a bit more regularly. Every time that he did, we thought that we were going to lose him. A time of worry and doubt but he always managed to recover and after, he was his usual sweet, funny self.
Age comes to all of us. We had allowed him to have access to the whole house. Downstairs and upstairs. Watching a rabbit leap up steps is an impressive sight. A rabbit carefully getting down is also impressive and rather comical in a cute fluffy way. Recently, he began falling down the stairs so we barred him from going up. It was clear that our ‘Azzie’ was getting older and slowing down. He was eating and drinking well so like all aging males, it was a case of making him comfortable and to deal with occasional grumpiness.
On Friday morning, I woke up for work and went to give him his breakfast as always. He wasn’t interested in eating so I knew immediately that something was not right. These are the the first signs of GI Stasis so it was clear that another trip to the vet was going to happen. I got my partner and together we administered medication that we had of painkillers and something to kickstart his digestive system. We tried to force feed him some liquid food. His reaction to this was not his usual one so we knew something was different. I had to go to work but it we agreed to take him to the vet as soon I returned. He had been fine the previous evening so it was concerning that he had deteriorated so quickly.
Worry and anxiety kept me company for most of the day and when I returned home late afternoon, he wasn’t any better. As we were getting him ready to take him to the vet, I noticed that his back legs were not working as they should. When something is inevitable, you still ignore it because a little thing called hope rises inside of you. The clinic was empty when we arrived so those feelings of hope were increasing due to not having to wait. We sat down and then it happened. Azzie collapsed on his side in the pet carrier. ‘We’ve lost him,’ we both said in unison. The veterinary nurse heard us and rushed us into the treatment room. We gently removed him from the pet carrier and we saw he was still breathing. The vet tried everything she could to hydrate him but then his breathing became erratic. She said that Azzie had had a complete shut down of his system and was probably caused by liver damage. Despite knowing what that meant, we spoke to him, stroked him, told him not to close his eyes and to keep on fighting.
It’s now Saturday morning. I woke up but Aslan did not. His bed is empty and the house feels cold and quiet. Tears have not yet dried because that’s what a creature who gives unconditionally does to a human being. You begin to feel that there is joy, happiness and good in the world. When death arrives you grieve, feel guilty and think that there was something you could have done. And all because of a little white rabbit with a grey twitchy nose.
Goodbye Azzie. Careful crossing that Rainbow Bridge. I hear it can be a little bit slippery.
Parliament has been described as the mother of all democracies. A mother that is hateful, self-serving and ready to rip the skin and bone off those who find life a daily struggle. That is what the publically elected right honourable ladies and gentlemen voted for yesterday. To watch the spectacle of well-paid, well-fed individuals with perfectly manicured finger nails, point and pass judgement on who is deserving of crumbs from the banqueting table was bile inducing. Hearing them ensured that final leap into the abyss of cynicism.
The political class is an affluent class and class is still the dominating control factor in this country. There exists a sneering contempt for anyone who is considered below and ridicule aimed at anyone who dare oppose the rhetoric that has been heard from both sides of the benches in recent years: That there is a deserving poor and an undeserving poor. This is the mantra that has been passed from dogmatic politicians to media outlets and consumed by a public that is battered and bruised by an economic system that has failed them in every possible manner.
It is easy to accept the lie; that those who receive morsels from the state, are to blame for us buying and consuming vast amounts of utterly pointless goods that were neither affordable nor necessary. The sudden economic meltdown due to the unscrupulous making as much money as possible, then expecting and getting more money to deal with the meltdown is conveniently forgotten. Instead, it’s easier to throw stones at people who are interrogated by officials who decide whether £70 a week is justifiable. Unemployment is not caused by the unemployed. Nor is poverty ever self-inflicted. It happens because those who have power can dictate circumstances to those who have none. It’s not just those who cannot find work that are being blamed, but also those who have physical and mental barriers that makes any kind of living without state support a practical impossibility. When did our lives become governed by people who take advantage of shoddy rules that allows them to claim money for things they can afford ten times over? But still create laws that attack the most vulnerable and then accuse them of greed?
You are more likely to find yourself in court for stealing food than for helping yourself to a treasury chest that we are told is empty. And yet, there is always money to send brave and noble young people to fight in wars that have no meaning and appear to have no end. The myth that this country is caring is clear to see when those who fight and kill for queen and country end up on the streets. No one would dare to say that the ex-soldier deserves to be on the streets but we use words like ‘scroungers,’ ‘skivers’ and ‘lazy’ when describing other human beings who need help. We accept these words to our shame because invariably, these are lives of people we never really see. Anyone who starts the sentence, ‘I know a family who are on benefits…’ are lying because they don’t know really know them nor do they want to.
When we give our little coins to charity to make us feel better about ourselves, remember one thing: it will probably end up in the pockets of someone who is struggling because we believed the lie that welfare social security is wasted on people who don’t deserve it.
Always read something that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it. ~P.J. O’Rourke
It’s now been ten years since moving into my home. Ten years of blissful cohabiting in what is a rather attractive semi-detached Edwardian house. Like most houses that are over a century old, its occupants have attempted to stamp their individuality upon the property. Luckily, most of the work has been a palimpsest: the old covered up with the new and the past not completely removed. This does mean that some rooms are in a better state than others.
One of the rooms was designated as ‘my study’ as soon as we moved in. I’ve held in its four walls vast amounts of paper, books, various computers and other detritus. What is commonly referred to as a makeover has long been promised and now there is a spurt of energy and motivation to get it completed.
Wallpaper has been stripped, old polystyrene tiles from the ceiling ruthlessly ejected, old plaster has fallen down making a dusty mess but it is, as they say, a beginning. Eventually, the room will be a space into which I disappear and where I’ll imagine myself as a gentleman of letters. There will be floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that I plan to construct myself. Not only will I be a gentleman of letters but practical too. Taking up fencing will be next on my list of things to do.
As is visible by the photographs, it is more akin to an abandoned bric-a-brac shop than a place to read and contemplate but potential screams out from the space. There are no plans to move so it will be a fixed space. A space where I expect one day to close my eyes and never open them again. Ideally, with a rather good hardback resting on my chest.
Yes and here we go, a very Happy New Year to you. I shall try to keep the noise down as I’m sure you will be nursing a hangover.
So here it is. The year of our Lord 2013 and the world hasn’t ended despite the apparent mene mene tekel upharsin. There will be lists aplenty referring to the ‘best of’ or ‘most important’ thing from the last twelve months but this ramble will not be one of those. Instead, it will be looking forward to the future; nose in front, chest-out ready to seize the opportunities that are thrown my way. Filled with enthusiasm and a new-found optimism, the world is an oyster ready to be enjoyed.
All that is utter arse gravy. Every year is pretty much like the preceding one. We perhaps have something extra in our lives that we didn’t have before: a new partner, a child, a pet or a larger gut. Essentially, we all carry on in the same way that we have always done. Stuck in the spin cycle of our minds thinking: “What is going on? What is that? Can I use it and is it time for bed yet? Let’s go on the internet and watch kittens fall off a sofa. Everything’s okay with the world. Oh no, I feel anxious. I need to eat crisps.”
****
“What’s your New Year resolution?” I have been asked many times during the last few weeks. The answer is always the same: “Don’t have any and waking up in the morning is as far as I plan.” I don’t have many friends. But I digress.
The thing about resolutions is that they are borne out of a sense of emptiness and failure. That somehow the last twelve months haven’t been good enough because of something that wasn’t done. It doesn’t matter how successful the year has been, there is always that nagging feeling that a little piece is missing and promising oneself a new way of doing things will be that piece. It doesn’t make any difference and quite frankly, if it hasn’t been done in the previous year it’s because we don’t want to do it, not that important or even possibly not in our capacity to accomplish it.
Eating less cheese is the nearest I get to promising myself anything. That is because the amount of cheese I eat is so vast that eating one less piece won’t make a difference. In general, the resolutions that we do keep don’t actually have a huge impact on our lives. That is what makes them so appealing. Now, where is that piece of Brie?
****
I purchased a typewriter last year (everything that is yesterday and further is now last year). There are still things that I need to understand about the Silver-Reed 500. It’s like anything that is dependent on a sensory response. It requires a certain feel and touch to make it fully in tune with one’s tapping. One cannot type at the same rapid speed as one can with a modern computer and keyboard but there is the pleasure of carefully thinking about the words being typed. With this care with typing comes care with thoughts. One begins not to squander language and instead creates succinct and direct communication with words. After all, is not the communicating of feelings, ideas and passions the whole point of language and inasmuch the whole purpose of words? There is still much to learn. It’s the exchanging of knowledge, wisdom and ideas that is the supreme endeavour of a human being.
****
Excerpt from 2012 diary.
24th July
I lost my phone today. Why that piece of oblong tech [has] become so important to me I’ll never know but it is gone. I’m thinking that perhaps it’s a good thing as this strange over-reliance on the bloody thing was becoming rather worrying. It says a lot about modernity that a piece of equipment designed to improve communications makes one peculiarly insular and obsessed with a screen. If it shows up [then] all well and good. If it doesn’t, I wonder if I’ll be able to live without one?
****
Writing is a rather strange affair. What I mean by writing is of course the challenge of spending time to create something coherent. We all write to a certain extent and that includes text messaging or a scribbled card sent to someone at Christmas and even the ubiquitous Twitter. The pursuit of writing as a means to engage a whole mass of people is something that is inherently different. Perhaps it doesn’t need to be but it most writers who spend hours forming sentences will tell you that it is.
It’s all to do with originality. Now, it’s best not to confuse originality with ideas because from a storytelling point of view, one could argue that most tales have been told. The only difference is how those tales are told. When it comes to words, originality is how you select the right words to tell your story. It sounds simple but it isn’t. Neil Gaiman explained it best when he said that people who don’t write believe an idea is the hard bit and writing is the easy bit.
I wish it was that way and without wishing to sound pompous, I have many ideas. I possess notebooks and hastily typed words saved in a computer all brimming with ideas. The blood, sweat and tears arises when the ideas become less viable when you try to construct paragraphs that relate to one another and that make sense. Not necessarily scientific sense but a narrative logic than engages, entertains and enraptures a reader.
During the last twelve months, I have felt that I understand my process of writing a little bit more. I emphasis my process because every writer must find their own way. Whether you write longhand, use a typewriter or various software products, one thing always remains constant: Writing requires writing. That sounds nonsensical but the only true method of getting your tales told is to get it down. It’s taken me over twenty years to realise that. Better late than never as the saying goes.
So there will be lots more this year in terms of balls-out, non-stop word smithery as another realisation has slowly dawned on me: What we do as a day job is not necessarily who we are. On the face of it, another spurious and flippant sounding sentence but truly and deeply, who we are is so much more than what we do.
I am a writer. I like telling tales and that is that. It will mean finding the space to ensure that the tales are completed fully and completely but all one needs is somewhere to tap, scribble or dictate depending on preferences. My little tales in Dirty Bristow, the contribution to 280 Stops and the adventures with Mister Qwertyuiop on this blog are all an outlet for those words in my head. There are many more words to find and use.
I am a writer. That’s who I am and perhaps one day, that’s all I will do.
Happy New Year.
Here is my little tale for Halloween. Always make sure you ankle doesn’t dangle over the bed. Enjoy.
The month of April brings much new life: the blossom of trees, caterpillars crawling, eating, waiting for their moment to become something new, wild birds making nests to lay eggs and from them comes a tangled mess with a heartbeat, chirruping their entrance into the world.
A boy of twelve was standing in his new garden. To him it was less of a garden and more a large space to explore. It had a small orchard and every so often he would see a squirrel climb up one and stand on a branch attempting safety from where it could look for food. The boy enjoyed looking at life scurrying, especially when it was on the ground. He was lifting rocks and finding earwigs or woodlice and he smiled as they attempted to find solace after having their homes destroyed by something alien.
The garden belonged to a rather attractive and neat semi-detached house in a leafy part of Birmingham. When Jack was told that he would be moving to the place where they make chocolate, his mind imagined vast and strange shaped buildings from where the smell of chocolate would waft and taint everything. He was disappointed that Bourneville turned out to be a rather similar place to where he had been living; rows of houses with not much happening inside them. Many changes had happened to Jack. His father had gone to sleep and never woke up. That was how death had been explained to him. At least, that was how he tried to explain it to himself. Some strange organism had entered his father’s body that made him weak and tired. It made him fall asleep forever. In his new garden of his new house, Jack wanted to look for life.
He stood on the edge of his favourite spot. A large pond that was alive with insects, tadpoles and even small fish. It measured four metres across with plants along the edge and one side a rockery with stones on which mossy clumps grew without fear. He had already imagined himself to be a pirate looking for treasure and a brave fisherman fighting a sea monster. The pond was a place to escape to new imagined worlds.
“Don’t get too close Jack.”
He turned around to see his mother standing over him.
“I’ve told you that it’s very deep and we don’t want you falling in.”
“I’m being careful.”
His mother was with a man that he didn’t recognise, but Jack had seen lots of people that had come and gone over the year. Lots of people who he was told were there to help him and for him to talk to. They all wanted to know how he felt. He didn’t really understand what they expected him to say. He was angry, he was sad and nobody he saw could possibly feel what he felt. So he learned to say things that made them think that he was “opening up.” He had heard that phrase once. He still didn’t know what it meant.
“This is Mr. Green. He is here to make sure that we got everything we need from this house.”
The man stretched out a hand. Jack took it and gave it a shake but didn’t say anything.
“There are still a few bits of paperwork that need doing Alyson. I know it’s taken a long time. Sometimes a sale can have unforeseen problems, but this is your house now.”
“I know that, but with all that has happened to us, I didn’t want the buying of the house to turn out the way it did. Has the old house definitely sold?”
“The ink has nearly dried. I still think renting it out would have been better but I understand why you are so eager to sell it.”
“I just want…” she stopped and looked at Jack. “Can we go inside to talk about it?”
Jack watched his mother and Mr. Green walk back up towards the house. He strolled around the perimeter of the pond watching for anything that was interesting. He ended up at the rockery and he saw a slab of rock that formed a lip over the pond. He carefully stepped on the rockery and began to kick the slab loose. He didn’t know why he was kicking it, but the anger which he was feeling stopped when the slab fell into the water. The vast ripples created a frenzy as spiders, tadpoles and other creatures searched for safety. Jack picked up the jam jar that he had brought with him and went to a shallow spot where he had seen a few tadpoles swimming with uncertainty. He scooped them up and looked at them trying to escape the glass prison. Little legless ink spots are what his dad used to call them and he couldn’t help speaking to them.
“Hello, little legless ink spots. This is your new home.”
His study of them in the jar was interrupted by the feeling of being watched. It wasn’t that safe warm feeling when his mother looked at him but a sense of something hidden, peering from unseen eyes. He began to walk back to the house and although he wouldn’t admit it, he walked with a slightly quicker pace than he would normally have done. By the time he got to the house it was less a walk, more of a run.
He went through the kitchen that, like the rest of the house, looked old. In Jack’s mind, old was men with walking sticks, the smell of damp and brown furniture that his grandparents owned. Old was a place where loud noises, games consoles and big televisions didn’t exist. His mother had told him that everything would be changed and decorated the way he liked but at the moment that seemed a long way away.
He saw his mother and Mr. Green in the dining room, sitting at the dinner table that had become a resting place for lots of paper, and not for plates of food.
“Look what I’ve got mum.” He displayed the contents of the jar with reticent pride.
“Oh Jack, what have I told you about bringing things from the garden?”
“But mum, these tadpoles are really big.”
“Okay sweetie, I will look at them later. Could you put them somewhere safe and then make sure you wash your hands. I won’t be much longer. I will start cooking some dinner soon. Okay?”
Jack entered his bedroom and placed the jar on his bedside cabinet. There were still some cardboard boxes that were unpacked but he felt that the house was not yet home so didn’t feel the urgency to empty them. His mother wasn’t in a hurry to empty them either. He viewed his mini aquatic tank and spoke to the inhabitants again.
“Don’t be scared. I’ll look after you.”
He was convinced that one of the tadpoles was listening as it floated in front of him and peered through the glass. Jack then heard the sound of a girl’s laughter, but it could have been the sound of crying. He went to the window that faced the garden and searched for the source, but he couldn’t see anyone, although the pond did appear strange. Like a blur or a smudge on a computer screen. He wiped the window with his hand and then went into the bathroom. He ran water in the basin and washed his hands carefully and methodically. An action that he learned from his father and one that Jack ensured he completed. Every gesture and movement was an acknowledgement that his father had existed. He splashed water on his face and once again he could hear that combination of laughter and crying. It lingered in the bathroom. He needed to be downstairs.
Jack watched his mother in the kitchen. She didn’t see him as she was heating food in the microwave and she was occupied by thoughts that had nothing to do with what she was doing. Mr. Green must have left as Jack couldn’t see him.
“Mum.”
She jump-started back into the world.
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. Dinner will be ready very soon. We’re going to eat on our laps again in the front room. I haven’t had time to tidy anything away.”
“Okay.” Jack decided not to ask about the laughter. He thought that it probably wasn’t her that had been laughing, but perhaps she had been crying.
Jack lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His Spider-Man lamp was on and casting web patterns. He always had the light on. The dark was a reminder of things that he would rather forget. His mother always had her bedroom door left open, and his too, just in case he had bad dreams. He wasn’t having as many as he used to, and the last few months she stopped having to change his sheets in the mornings.
He looked at the tadpoles in the jar. He was told during dinner that they should really be put back into the pond otherwise they wouldn’t survive. It was agreed that they could stay with him just one night and then he would free them. He felt his eyes close but forced them open again. All the tadpoles had stopped moving, apart from one who had now swum to the top of jar. Jack saw it begin to try and get out by climbing. Now Jack knew many things, and he knew that tadpoles didn’t grow arms or legs instantaneously, but this one had grown arms and hands and these hands grabbed the edge of the jar and was pulling it up. It was also growing legs and climbed over the edge. It fell out, hit the cabinet and then landed on the floor. Jack couldn’t see it but he could hear it. A slithering wet sound of gurgling breath. Jack knew that all he had to do to get to the safety of his mother’s bedroom was get out of bed, put his feet on the ground and walk. But that meant putting his feet where the sound was coming from. He slowly lowered himself down into his duvet until he was completely undercover. Not seeing didn’t mean not hearing and whatever was on his bedroom floor was no longer small and harmless but something larger and growing. Jack raised his head out of the duvet and saw what was in front of him. Covered in pondweed, mud and decaying matter was a creature that looked like a man, but its dark tentacled arms moved like snakes entangled together. The head was bulbous and without clearly defined features. This image in front of him would have made a brave man cower, but the thing that Jack was staring at the most was the face; a girl that was trapped under the creature’s arms; a face of loneliness, fear and sadness. Jack didn’t know how he got into his mother’s bedroom, but he was screaming and crying and didn’t know when he would stop.
He held onto his mother’s hand as they walked towards his bedroom. He had slept in her bed and refused to look until the morning. She entered the room without him and then turned and stretched out a loving hand.
“Come inside,” she said softly. “There’s nothing to fear. I promise.”
Jack cautiously entered his room. It looked the same as it had done when he had gone to bed. He immediately glanced at the jar. All the tadpoles were still inside it.
“It was a dream; a horrible nasty dream, but still a dream.”She held him tight and kissed his face.
They both stood at the edge of the pond. Jack insisted on pouring the living contents back himself. They both watched the tadpoles swim away.
“I’m going to have to call school and let them know you’re coming in today. I’ll say that you’re sick. It’s Friday anyway.”
Jack wasn’t listening as he was still following the tadpoles’ journey in the water. For a moment, he saw the girl’s face that he had seen at night, reflecting back, but only for a moment.
The images on the laptop always made him feel better. His mother was making telephone calls while he sat and generated pixels of a happier past. He clicked from photograph to photograph. Photographs of him, his mother and his father together, sometimes separate but always a family. His favourite photo was when Jack had made a comic book for his father’s birthday. THE GREATEST DAD IN THE WORLD. His father was raising the comic book and facing the camera with a huge smile. Jack had taken the photograph himself. His mother said the image was a little blurred. His father said that Jack was the best photographer in the world.
The garden pond appeared on the screen. It was a photograph that surfaced without it being related to anything else that he had been viewing. He tried to click and make it go but it remained on the screen. There was someone standing by the pond so Jack zoomed closer and saw it was a girl. The face had now become so familiar that it was no longer a stranger. The fleeting encounters with that face had formed a connection; one that could not be severed. She was staring straight at the camera, but more than that, her eyes were boring into Jack’s. He noticed a strange shadow by the girl. It was the shape of a man and there was a hand on her shoulder. His mother walked into the room, he looked up and was about to show her when he realised that all there was on screen was a photograph of him at a park.
Jack decided to sleep in his own bed that night. His mother had told him that he could stay in her bedroom but he insisted that he wanted to sleep on his own. He lay awake until he knew that his mother was asleep. He quietly dressed and then walked downstairs, went to the kitchen, picked up a torch and entered the garden. It was chilly and he felt cold but there was something inside that made him carry on and walk straight to the pond. He shone the torch onto the rockery. All he saw was the damp and glisten of a cold night. The sky was clear and the moon was high enough in the sky to decide that the torch was not needed. He stared at the dark water again and saw his reflection. He walked closer to the edge and knelt down and put his hand in the water. The surface rippled and he saw his distorted image shake and move and then begin to reform, but not as him, as somebody else. It was the girl and he was no longer surprised. She began to speak to him, but no sound came, just the incoherent shapes of moving lips. She turned her head round as if someone was behind her and then turned back looking straight at him with an expression of fear. A shadow crossed the pond’s surface and then Jack felt himself falling.
It is a strange occurrence when you are expecting one kind of sensation but you experience something else. Jack thought he would be feeling wet, instead he found himself back inside the house, or at least something that felt like the house. It was darker, emptier and colder. He stood in what could have been the sitting room but it was not quite the same. There were thick brown curtains that were closed, but Jack knew that behind those curtains was nothing. He didn’t know what nothing looked like but he was sure that it was behind those curtains. He tried to look for a door but couldn’t see one. The girl was in the room. Whether she had always been there and he hadn’t seen her was unclear, but there she stood. She walked towards him smiling and Jack didn’t know whether to run away or just stand. She had black hair that was just above her neck. There was a parting down the middle and she wore a brown jumper that matched the pattern and material of the curtains. He was going to speak but she put a finger on his lips. Her finger was cold and his lips tingled. She placed her hands on his shoulders and leant over and whispered in his ear.
“You don’t belong here. I’ll make sure you get home.”
Her voice was soft but her breath was cold and Jack couldn’t stop himself from shivering. She stepped away and her smile disappeared. He thought that she was crying but then realised that what he thought were tears was water gushing out, not from her eyes, but from her very skin. What made Jack take a step back was not the water but the limbs sprouting from her body; the same slithering tentacles that he had witnessed in his bedroom. These arms wrapped themselves around her until all he could see was her eyes. He recoiled at the creature that was standing in front of him again. A creature that was hate and anger and Jack was now alone with it. The girl was fighting to escape but she seemed unable to set herself free. The creature extended a tentacled hand towards Jack. Beckoning, clutching and claiming him but Jack knew that whatever the thing was, he needed to be away from it. He was deciding what to do when imperceptibly, the girl freed herself and ran straight towards Jack. She held him tight in her cold arms.
“Time for you to go home.”
He heard his mother’s voice crying and pleading.
“Please Jack, wake up.”
He opened his eyes and saw his mum and two men standing over him. He felt sick and he turned to his side as the taste of stagnant water came out from his mouth.
“Please stand back” said one of the men. He felt his eyes closing again but the man made him open his eyes. He felt something warm being placed on his body and then was lifted into the air and then he fell asleep but it was a good sleep.
A lot happened in the following weeks. Jack was kept in hospital but he was recuperating. The hospital staff were unclear on why he kept saying that he wanted to speak to the police. His mother thought it was just the shock and the doctor agreed with her, but Jack was quietly resolute that he wanted to speak to the police.
When a police officer came he asked to speak to her on his own. She wrote few notes on her notebook and looked shocked as she left. Jack’s mother asked the officer what he had said but the officer just said that she had to check a few details first.
Jack could not explain to anyone how he knew the body of twelve year old Sally Harding was buried in the rockery of the garden pond. She had gone missing from Leicester in 1976 and the investigation at the time didn’t have any success in finding her. The police were now sure that the person who had lived in the house, before Jack and his mother moved in, was responsible. He had died in the house and had no living relatives so his home had been auctioned. Jack didn’t try to explain to anyone what had happened to him but asked his mother to stay with him while in hospital. She slept by his side as much as she could but he seemed calm and free from all the anxieties that had plagued him.
One night, as she was watching him sleep on his hospital bed, she heard him talking in his sleep. She couldn’t quite hear everything and she was concerned that he was having a nightmare but then he went into a deep and peaceful sleep. Before doing so, she clearly heard him say:
“You’re welcome.”
Writer Andrew Killeen has been running a writers group in The Prince of Wales for quite some time now. He has also organised a literary festival in the pub again this year. Details below.
Wednesday 16th May is National Flash-Fiction Day, which I suppose means I had better get my writing fingers to make some kind of effort and create something semi-readable.
I have written flash-fiction before (basically a short, short story) some of which can be read here and I find it certainly helps hone one’s skills in succinctness.
If you have time to spare (and even if you haven’t) why not write one. If you want, you can publish it on this site via comments section. Probably only about twenty people will read it but it’s worth giving it a go. Ultimately, writing is nothing more than just “having a go” and then going back to fine tune your attempts.
Get writing.
For someone who appears to have a rather cynical exterior and doesn’t care much for the structure of custom, I’m rather fond of the Christmas period. As you can tell by my rather incoherent rambling on audioboo, I find this current time of year rather uplifting. To be exact, I choose to remove myself from whatever darkened corner I may be occupying and walk towards to the light.
Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol is one of those texts that fills me with warmth. My other half and I spend the few weeks before each Christmas reading the story to each other. A faded, paperback edition but somehow this gives the experience a rather timeless feel. I also watch and listen to favourite adaptations including Scrooge (the 1951 film version with Alistair Sim), The Muppet Christmas Carol and Jim Dale’s unabridged reading. The story has been adapted in many ways and sometimes not particularly well (the musical film version with Albert Finney springs to mind) but I’m always willing to hear and watch an adaptation of the work.
So it was rather fortuitous that I managed to see Blue Orange Theatre’s final performance of A Christmas Carol. My hopes were high as it was a new theatre that I had not heard of before and they were performing a personal favourite. There is always a slight doubt in the back of one’s mind that any raised expectation can only lead to disappointment and therefore, one tries to dampen any excitement with cold subjectivity.
I need not have worried as the evening was an undiluted joy. It was a small and intimate stage, with a small group of actors where the majority were playing multiple characters but the sheer energy, physical dexterity (plenty of costume changes) and delivery of lines made all doubts dissipate.
It was a reminder that great theatre doesn’t need vast production just imagination and the ability to engage an audience. There were many children present who looked as captivated as members of a theatre audience should be. The production managed to raise the ghost of Dickens’ idea that did not put anybody out of humour with themselves or with the theatre. A success in every possible way.
I am currently reading Joseph Heller’s Now and Then. An autobiography that feels like an extremely interesting older gentleman is regaling you with anecdotes over a long and satisfying dinner.
Heller is of course best known for his novel Catch-22, a rather influential book in terms of forming my world view on matters serious and comedic. I first read it when I was fourteen and although my emerging teenage self didn’t understand all the themes, it did make me laugh on more than three occassions. A rather impressive reaction to elicit from a thirteen year old male.
Below is a video of Heller being interviewed and I have to admit to favouriting this piece of wit, charm and intelligence
I consider myself extremely fortunate living in Birmingham as there are two pretty sizeable wildlife parks, Lickey Hills in the South and Sutton Park in the North. This means that I get to be an urbanite and still enjoy flashes of nature.
Today involved a stroll through Lickey Hills. I decided to use My Tracks on my Android phone to monitor my footsteps. Below is a map of the walk.
View A Walk in Lickey Hills in a larger map
I’m sure that every film-maker will have tales to tell regarding the amount of work creating a film entails. Birmingham resident Andy Spencer could probably regale you with stories regarding the making of his film, The Casebook of Eddie Brewer. Not only did he make it with a budget that most Hollywood directors would use just to buy coffee, but he also managed to assemble a cast predomentaly made up of Midlands based actors.
The film stars Ian Brooker, who Ambridge fans will know as Wayne Foley. He plays paranormal investigator Eddie Brewer and judging by the trailer, he is certainly coming up against all manner of rather frightening phenomena.
Not sure when the film is going to be released but since it was shot in my home town of Erdington, I cannot wait to see the finished picture.