“THE BUBBLES” he yelped with alarming volume. Perched on the pavement, you and he gazed into a bottle of amber fluid, placed unsteadily on a bus shelter seat. You nodded your head in agreement. There were, indeed, many bubbles. The rain clattered down around the shelter. It's pounding noise dramatised the amber bubbles rising to the top of the bottle and bursting.
“The bubbles are many.” you remarked. He nodded. It was not the first time you had both noticed this. Clinging to the plastic, a lone bubble would detach itself, swimming for freedom to the top, only to find it shared a fate with many determined bubbles that, like it, would be lost in the greater world of gases, losing all sense of self.
“The bubbles are many.” he agreed. You both perched in silence as the rain began to stop.
Grabbing the bottle in both hands, your partner stood up and took a hefty swig. Throwing his head back, his clammy midriff made an appearance from under a padded orange jacket, with several little dark hairs poking out from his pale skin. He lowered the bottle back down and nestled it in his warm armpit before letting out a satisfied belch. You sniffed the air: beautiful cider air.
The two of you had been together for a long time. You and him. Him and you. You had always been similar but now it was difficult to tell the two of you apart. It made reflections confusing. You were round, roughly an oval excluding a pair of pink protruding ears. You wore baseball caps and his was a little too small for his head. You had grubby little sparkly grins and he had freckles. You both walked with a rhythmless skip, arms and legs flailing around the pavement.
“And so I said to him...” he told you, passing the warm sticky bottle your way. His flailing had caused its contents to splash around, coating the outside in a sugary film. You took it from him, throwing back a few mouthfuls and nestling it under your arm. It tasted sweet like sunshine.
“I told him I had not had enough.” You nodded, wagging a finger to reinforce your agreement. He joined you in the action as you both strolled across the road. Vehicles thoughtfully stopped to let you both pass, no doubt impressed by the vehement finger-wags. As you both reached the next bit of pavement, you noticed a figure at the bottom of the street. He was a youngish man in a crisp dark suit, emerging from an office. He looked weary, clasping his face with one hand and holding what appeared, from his posture, to be an excessively heavy slim-line suitcase with the other.
“Poor BASTARD” you spluttered, phlegm and spittle showering the pavement. Your friend strode towards him and you scurried to catch up. Now closer, you saw that his chin twitched, causing his narrowed lips to bob up and down. His forehead was crumpled and his eyes, which were not fixed on anything, had a look distant concern. This was a man in need of a helping hand.
Thrusting the warm bottle of cider in his direction, you stopped to enquire “Have you not seen the...”. You paused to share a glance with your friend before continuing. “Bubbles?”. For a brief second, it appeared he was looking into the bottle with you, watching the bubbles move. Screwing up his face further, it soon became clear that had not understood the enquiry, and was displeased by the object you had thrust before him. He backed off a few paces, looking from side to side. As if to have had his attire marred by his close proximity to the amber fluid, he began to pat himself down. He sighed loudly and, turning his back on the two of you, walked away at an uncommonly fast pace.
“Poor bastard.” your friend whispered, shaking his head with a pitiful smile. You paused to look at your friend, pleased to see his sparkle had not been removed by the pitiful stranger. You imagined that your own, also, was still in tact, but took a slurp of cider to make sure. Beautiful liquid sunshine. And with that, the two of you flailed in unison back to your bus shelter haven.
“What was it like before?” he asked you, as the sun was going down later that day. You paused to think, trying to determine where the line of 'before' and 'after' was exactly.
“I can't remember” you responded, moments later, unscrewing the bottle cap. You closed your eyes, as did he, and bathed in the sound of the bubbles being released: 'ttsssss'. It was the greatest sound of them all.
“Probably shit.” you remarked, throwing your head back and gulping down the cider.
“Piss-poor” he agreed, and smirked. You both let out a sly giggle.
“Then why do they bother?” he asked. “Why the briefcases?”
You shook your head, circling the rim of the bottle with your finger. You could tell that while talking generally, your friend had a particular individual in mind. It was a question you could not answer. You held the bottle up so that you could look through it. One by one, you watched the bubbles rise. They seemed to be endless.
“Bad advice?” you suggested, your eye brows raised. You turned towards your friend to gauge his reaction. He was nodding his head, his finger protruding and wagging slightly.
“Yes” he replied. “Bad advice.” He sounded out the words slowly, giving real thought to each.
“Could have been so different” he mused. And suddenly, leapt to attention, stamping his foot. Confused by your friend's sudden excitement, you leaned towards him, as if to better understand his movements at closer proximity. Noticing your puzzled expression, he threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh.
“We can help!” he whispered, scratching his inner-thigh with dirty finger nails. In celebration of this decision, he whipped an unlabelled half bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket and held it out on front of him with both hands. You smiled widely and, together, you made your way to your usual doorway and settled down for the night. What, you asked yourself, could be finer? That warm feeling of vodka inside you made it easy to sleep.
Your days together often wove into one another but monotonous they were not. You had chosen a busy street as your home and there were always countless people walking and talking and shopping. You'd sit together for hours, chatting and watching the fast paced lives of those around you. There were people you would see regularly and begin to recognise and others you would only see once. The local bakery was one of your favourite spots. This wasteful business would throw out bags of baked goods every evening and for those lucky enough to stroll past at the right time, relatively fresh produce was bagged and waiting. The removal of choice made for surprises: sausage rolls one day, doughnuts the next. It was all good. And there was always enough money, dropped on the road or thrown to you by passers by, for a lovely bottle of something nice. You'd never had it better.
Sitting across the road from the briefcase man's office, you watched him march from his parked car to the door. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a set of keys and clumsily dropped them on the ground. He wiped his eyes with his hand and let out an audible sigh. Bad start. He put his suitcase down, allowing it to balance upright on the pavement, and bent down to hook the keys with a finger. He put the key in the door and let himself in, all this behind the amber bubbles resting on your knee. Through the office window, you saw him open the blinds and settle down by a desk. It was early, the sun only just rising, and yet his working day had already begun. Your friend stretched, opening his mouth to form a yawn so powerful, it created a belching sound. It was a chilly morning and so you huddled together, the aroma of his breath combining with your own in the air around you. You joined in and let out a tremendous belch, the bestial kind, making you feel like a tiger or a T-Rex. The gratifying noise broke your morning silence. Your friend responded with another yawn, his mouth opening so widely, you could hear his jaw clicking.
“Shall we begin?” he enquired in a gentlemanly fashion. You nodded and got to your feet, helping him up as you did so. The two of you strode across the road, to the office door. You raised a fist and knocked on the wood with three hard bashes. With your hands clasped behind your backs, yours holding a girthy bottle by the neck, you stood side by side, awaiting the man's response. After the sound of eight or nine footsteps, the door opened slightly, and a face, clean shaven with a topping of blonde hair in a side parting, peered out at you.
“Can I help you?” he said, in a tone suggestive of a warning rather than an enquiry. You both smiled at him, rocking on the balls of your feet.
“Not likely.” you responded, tilting your head sideways and smiling.
“We don't need help.” your friend chimed in.
He narrowed his eyes, a look of trying puzzlement on his face.
“You knocked.” he informed you both. Of this you were acutely aware. You demonstrated this point with a nod.
“Oh for God's sake...” he muttered under his breath, blinking deliberately, as if in disbelief.
“WHAT-DO-YOU-WANT?”
“Do you need some help?” you asked him, attempting the most sincere of tones. You stretched your arms out, moving the bottle to its usual place under your arm. The man let out a deep sigh and disappeared back into the office, slamming the door with such ferocity that a breeze wafted against your faces. You turned to your friend.
“Poor bastard.” you commented. You looked down to find a shiny 50 pence piece looking up at you. Not a total waste of a morning then. And with that, the two of you resumed your place on the pavement across the road. You'd wait until he was ready to come out of there.
“Nice bloke.” you friend remarked, before you spluttered out a laugh. Your contact with this acrid fellow made you feel pleased with your own selves and grateful that all was as it was for you. His life must be truly horrendous, you supposed, to create such impatience. But this would change.
“He'll get better.” you reassured your friend. You were feeling particularly determined. You patted him on the shoulder with your podgy palm and passed him the bottle in hope of raising a smile. The sweet medicine worked a charm and he let out a relieved sigh.
“He'll get better.” he repeated in agreement.
The two of you spent your day on that particular piece of pavement, commenting on passers by and offering sad eyed youngsters your words of wisdom. “Chin up, son”, you'd say. “It's a wonderful world!”. You kept an eye on the office window throughout this time, just in case there were any changes with your new acquaintance. He occasionally paced back and forth. This sort of movement was easy to spot through the window. It seemed that whatever his business was, he was not all that well suited to it, given the upset it appeared to be causing him.
After the two of you had played a variety of games, including Pebble-Tiddley-Winks and Belch-the-Alphabet, not to mention the less enjoyable Pebble-Belch and Wink-the-Alphabet, the suitcase man emerged from his office and was met by a youngish woman. They spoke frustratingly quietly and as such, you could only guess their conversation from their body language. He put an arm around her narrow waist and whispered something in her ear. She then turned and glanced at you, raising her eyebrows and whispered something to him in return. It was perplexing. The two of you leaned back on the pavement, your crossed legs sprawling on to the road. You opened the cider: 'tss'. A little flat perhaps, but definitely drinkable. You raised your head to look back at them and as if out of nowhere she shoved him and took several steps back. His hands were reaching out to her, requesting that she reconsider. You heard him raise his voice to say “Cynthia. Please!”. “No, Martin.” she yelled back at him. “Not this time”. Her voice was shrill and cutting. He took a few steps towards her. “C'mon Cynth. Let's talk about this. It's not how it sounds.” he begged. Poor bastard.
“Poor bastard” your friend whispered, a finger tip in one nostril. You shook your heads in unison.
“At least let me explain.” he roared after her. She was already walking away. Her long legs, visible in her pencil skirt, had taken her to the end of the street and she turned a corner. Gone.
He put his face in his hands and bent down to sit on the office door step. He looked crumpled. Another thing to worry about. You turned to see your companion had been moved by the events, a tear forming in the corner of his eye and slowly running down his freckled cheek.
“Poor poor bastard.” he repeated. “It's just one thing after another.”
You decided to move forward with the plan. This was a man in need of help fast. You stood up and your legs flailed in his direction, carrying you to his side of the road. You crouched down beside him, his head still securely hidden in his hands.
“Chin up, son.” you said softly. “It's time for a change. Don't you think?”
His face emerged, wet from his tears, his cheeks pinker than before. Suddenly he had the look of a boy. His hair had developed a more tousled look, the side parting having vanished. This pleased you a little. He was making some progress. His brow was furrowed and his lips quivered at the corners. He took a deep breath and, screwing up his nose at your odour, stood up suddenly, turning away from you. Before you could look up, he had disappeared back into his office. Gone. You turned to your partner, who was still sprawled across the pavement on the other side of the road. He shrugged at you, his cheeks visibly damp. You returned the shrug. With the bottle in one hand, you called out “Dinner, then?” and took several heavenly mouthfuls. Nothing better.
Your job done for the day, you made for the bakery bins, where you and your friend found surplus tasty treats. Cheese and onion baguettes, cheese and onion pasties: it seemed it had not been a day of cheese and onion for the paying customer. Their loss. The two of you leaned on the large metal bin and finished off the leftovers. Perfection. You washed it all down with your usual liquid of choice and watched the remaining bubbles. Counting them was futile but you enjoyed the challenge.
“We'll get him in the morning.” your friend said before letting out a noticeably onion-scented belch. “He can't ignore us forever.”
You grunted in agreement. It was true. He'd have to listen eventually. He would realise the world of business and pencil skirts weren't going to treat him well.
The following morning, you made your way to the office. You were a little later than you had been the day before, having indulged yourselves somewhat the night before, and feared you may have already missed him coming into work. The two of you sat down on the pavement opposite and made yourselves comfortable. No sign of him. You arranged the pebbles as you had done the previous day and started a game to pass the time. Your friend had always had the edge over you with Pebble-Tiddley-Winks. His skill knew no bounds. Lining up the black stone, he took a deep breath and stopped suddenly.
“He's in there!” he yelped, pointing across the road. Right enough, the suitcase man was opening the blinds. Moments later, the door opened and he walked out, stretching his arms in the air. His suit was lined with creases and his hair more dishevelled than ever. His facial hair too, was unkempt. Your friend looked at you, raising an eyebrow and a smile. You both stood to attention and strolled across to meet your new comrade.
“It's time!” you called out to him, grinning widely.
“Forget all this.” your friend added.
The man jumped a little, clearly unaware that he had an audience. His eyes looked tired, the bags beneath them bulging wearily. You held out the bottle of cider in both hands and your friend unscrewed the lid: 'ttssss'. Together, you edged towards him, rolling on the balls of your feet, urging him to join you. His legs appeared to give way, and suddenly he was beneath you both, sitting on the step. He looked up with a resignatory smile and a shrug, before reaching into his suit jacket, which, you noticed, was not as freshly scented as the previous day, and pulling a bottle of whiskey out from an inside pocket. You could not tame the smile that was spreading across your face. The urge to grin was unstoppable. The drink had smoothed out his prickles and creased his shirt. It was beautiful.
The two of you sat down, on either side of him, in unison. You gave his back a hearty rub with one hand and watched as he sobbed into the bottle. Everything would be alright now. Life tasted better on the other side and he had two experienced new friends to help him through the journey. This was just the beginning.
Sunday, 2 August 2009
Tail of the Wolf
Once upon a time these woods were filled with my sort. You could hear piercing howls from the deepest crevices of beyond when the moon was full and crisp. Back in those days, the moon really did shine. It left the leaves sparkling on the trees and created shadows that seemed to come alive as the wind swept through. Thorned bushes grew arms and legs and darted in and out of the darkness. The mysteries of the night surrounded you. To take a stroll in the moonlight, to feel the cool breeze parting your fur, was glorious.
These days, there's little left for an old fashioned Canis Lupus like me. I still go through the motions but there's something decidedly Green Peace about howling by the rotting stumps of the old oaks. I can still reach the same blood curdling pitch but the missing foliage makes for a distinct lack of reverberation. And one does cringe at the sight of a beast experimenting with resonance in Grandma's potting shed, doesn't one?
Contemplating this very issue, one mild evening, as I strolled through the shrubbery, I heard the snapping of a twig followed by a plaintive tune. As the delicate sound became increasingly audible, I stepping onto the pathway to greet it.
'What a succulent sound' I remarked, leaning on a slender elm.
The owner of the voice stopped before me and let out a wistful sigh.
'So kind of you to say,' she responded.
I combed through my furry tail with a single claw, drawing her attention to my beastliness. With a delicate hand placed on her hip, she tilted her head towards me, pouting with an air of pretence. We paused and examined one another. She had lips like rose petals that seemed to flutter as she spoke. Her perfectly rounded face was framed by dazzling chestnut locks that tumbled down to her waist. And what a waist! Her strikingly curved figure caused me to glance down at my own battered form. The winter season had not treated me kindly and I appeared gangly and balding as a result. The alopecia on my posterior was spreading, creating the appearance of particularly undesirable human underpants. It's stress that does it. I fret over the quality of my pelt and it thins out further. It's a viscous cycle resulting in the depreciation of my sense of self worth. And the slightness of my stature does not, as you can imagine, aid my confidence in any way.
'Haven't you somewhere to be?' she enquired, awakening me from my thoughts. 'A rabbit to chase?' she added, rolling her eyes as if her words were not mocking enough.
'No little bunnies today' I responded, mirroring her pout. I felt my stomach sink as I vocalised my feeble response. Little. Bunnies. She must find me wretched.
'After a bigger catch?' she smirked, her lashes flickering like butterflies' wings.
'I only accept the best' I responded, feeling decidedly more suave.
She took a step towards me. And one more. So close now that she must have felt my warm breath against the side of her snow white face. I felt a blissful shudder run down my spine.
'Then meet me in Grandma's cottage in fifteen minutes' she whispered softly into my fur.
As she stepped back and walked onwards, I experienced a dull ache within me. Her lack of trepidation, her absence of reverence, left me longing for the reactions I deserved. Just a shudder or a twitching lip would have been enough to rekindle my sense of potence. Instead I found her delicate breath had created a shudder in me. Such effortless power made my sparse fur stand on end. I howled after her, imagining the racing of her little heart upon hearing me, then I dived back into the shrubbery of the forest floor.
I considered my options. The girl would be making her way to her Grandma's home and I would have been a fool not to be there upon her arrival. There was, however, the possibility that our arrangement was intended as a trick. With this in mind, I felt it best to arrive before expected, in order to gain a fuller understanding of the situation. I began bounding towards the old woman's home. I upped my speed again and dashed between the saplings. Cutting through the woodland and avoiding the path meant I arrived at the cottage in mere moments. Before long, I was face to face with a gnarled wooden door on a lone lodging. I knocked.
'Dear sweet Granddaughter, is that you?' sounded a voice of a decidedly lower tone than I had expected.
I hadn't considered the possibility of a Grandfather too. I cleared my throat and attempted to up my pitch considerably.
'Yes it is,' I replied in a coy tone. The result was pleasingly feminine.
'Come on in,' the voice croaked.
I slowly creaked the door open enough to peer inside. An old woman-shaped lump lay in bed by an open fire, curled up under a thick blanket. I opened the door further and crept in, closing it firmly behind me. She turned to face me. I tensed, awaiting a feeble shriek.
'Hello there,' she grumbled gruffly, 'you're not who I was expecting.'
Grandma, it seemed, was not the shrieking sort. I took a few steps towards her, hoping a closer proximity would unnerve her a little. She was not the frail nonagenarian I was expecting but a bulky individual with numerous thick hairs protruding from a fierce square chin. Her skin was thick and yellowed from a lifetime of heavy smoking: a fact that the room's discoloured walls provided evidence for. It seemed there was no Grandfather but a particularly robust woman.
'Would you like a spot of tea, dear?' she asked me.
Having failed to frighten her with my presence alone, I felt a little confused about what was expected of me in such a situation. Were the girl to arrive and find me sipping a cup of Earl Grey with her ageing Grandmother, I doubt she would have considered me the predatory fiend I hoped she might. I shook my head and attempted a devilish smile, displaying my fine array of razorish teeth. That ought to shake her up a bit. The old woman tilted her spectacles a little and upon recognising my expression, smiled back, displaying two tangled rows of rancid yellow gnashers. Suddenly she lurched forward, holding her abdomen, and opened her jaws to release a putrid belch of such magnitude that I took an involuntary step towards the door, my gums bleeding in sympathy for her own.
'Oh.' I said, gasping. 'What... big... teeth you have.'
I felt unsettled by my own words. The old woman looked charmed by them. This was not the chase I'd hoped for.
'I'm going to eat you,' I said, vomiting a little in my mouth.
It seemed I had little other choice. Were the girl to arrive and witness her Grandmother's nonchalance, she would not experience the awe and dread that I hoped she might. And perhaps the old woman would satiate my hunger, thereby diminishing the power the girl had over me with her flawless succulent flesh. I would be in complete control and she would submit to me with the greatest of reverence.
'Oh?' the old woman responded, grinning, with a glimmer of lust in her eyes.
'Yes,' I responded sternly, 'I'm going to gnaw on your leathery flesh'.
I was having trouble convincing myself of this but she seemed fairly excited by the prospect. I'd never experienced such willing prey. It removed much of the pride associated. I moved closer and sat sheepishly on the end of her bed. I avoided looking into those lascivious eyes, not for fear of remorse but rather repulsion of the glee I knew I would be met with. As I lunged towards her, she screamed with delight.
I do not feel compelled to tell you how I went about it. I've since tried to refrain from remembering. But her skin, if you must know, was like a hairy, perspiring Wellington boot. The wrinkles, however, were so deep set that the parts protruding most had a crunch to them. The fat, on the other hand, was so layered and stringy, so thick and revoltingly pungent, that I began to heave uncontrollably. I retched the old woman up and filled her bed with fetid vomit. My fur was matted with the viscous, acidic broth. I tried to shake it off me but the smell was such that I began retching again, covering myself further. I felt disgusted that I'd lowered myself to such meagre pickings.
It was on the edge of the vomit soaked bed that I sat, surrounded by the bones of the old woman, when the door creaked open. In the doorway stood the girl and as she looked at the bed and at me and inhaled the rotten odour, the corner of her mouth curled upwards, producing a crooked grin.
'Did you...' she began, a look of bemused astonishment taking over her.
With vomit on my paws, in my fur, on my face, I could tell no lie. My stomach felt as though it was literally being tied in knots, at the hands of a debauching pensioner.
'I...' I started. I could not find any words suitable.
The girl's face crumpled. Her brows became furrowed and her eyes stern. She looked straight at me while remaining perfectly still. Could it be that I'd frightened her at last? It had not been anything like how I had planned but she appeared awestruck none the less. I attempted a fierce smile, reminding her of my dangerous nature with the sight of my fangs. She raised her eyebrows and, quite unexpectedly, showered me with saliva as she exploded into a fit of laughter. She threw back her head, cackling and slapping her slender thighs.
'Nooo,' I howled with intense desperation. 'No, you can't laugh,' I cried.
I pulled my scraggly tail around my chest for comfort and let out an anguished cry.
'Stop it!' I snarled.
My protesting seemed to amuse her further. She leaned forward, grasping at her abdomen, snorting and sniggering. Suddenly, her laughter was interrupted by a deep booming voice from outside.
'I heard shrieking,' called the voice, 'what seems to be the matter, young girl?' A man of exceptionally large stature stood behind her in the doorway. His broad shoulders filled the door frame. His biceps were easily the width of her waist and the axe in his hand was noticeably sharp enough to relieve me of my head. Her eyes never left mine and as his joined them in inspecting my foul state, the two of them burst into yet more floods of excruciating cackles.
'The fierce wolf!' the man bellowed mockingly, 'Is this really it?'
'That's me' I grumbled, my insides aching. I leapt down from the acrid bed and laid myself out before him, my neck ready for the chop.
'Do me the honour,' I muttered, closing my eyes in anticipation. I felt a breeze from the axe as it swung down on to me. Unexpectedly, I felt an agonizing pain at the base of my spine and as I opened my eyes, I found my bare rear removed of its furry appendage. The man stood over me with my tail in his fist. With blood flowing from the stump, I scrambled through his legs and out into the open. The beast without a tail: hardly a beast at all.
These days, there's little left for an old fashioned Canis Lupus like me. I still go through the motions but there's something decidedly Green Peace about howling by the rotting stumps of the old oaks. I can still reach the same blood curdling pitch but the missing foliage makes for a distinct lack of reverberation. And one does cringe at the sight of a beast experimenting with resonance in Grandma's potting shed, doesn't one?
Contemplating this very issue, one mild evening, as I strolled through the shrubbery, I heard the snapping of a twig followed by a plaintive tune. As the delicate sound became increasingly audible, I stepping onto the pathway to greet it.
'What a succulent sound' I remarked, leaning on a slender elm.
The owner of the voice stopped before me and let out a wistful sigh.
'So kind of you to say,' she responded.
I combed through my furry tail with a single claw, drawing her attention to my beastliness. With a delicate hand placed on her hip, she tilted her head towards me, pouting with an air of pretence. We paused and examined one another. She had lips like rose petals that seemed to flutter as she spoke. Her perfectly rounded face was framed by dazzling chestnut locks that tumbled down to her waist. And what a waist! Her strikingly curved figure caused me to glance down at my own battered form. The winter season had not treated me kindly and I appeared gangly and balding as a result. The alopecia on my posterior was spreading, creating the appearance of particularly undesirable human underpants. It's stress that does it. I fret over the quality of my pelt and it thins out further. It's a viscous cycle resulting in the depreciation of my sense of self worth. And the slightness of my stature does not, as you can imagine, aid my confidence in any way.
'Haven't you somewhere to be?' she enquired, awakening me from my thoughts. 'A rabbit to chase?' she added, rolling her eyes as if her words were not mocking enough.
'No little bunnies today' I responded, mirroring her pout. I felt my stomach sink as I vocalised my feeble response. Little. Bunnies. She must find me wretched.
'After a bigger catch?' she smirked, her lashes flickering like butterflies' wings.
'I only accept the best' I responded, feeling decidedly more suave.
She took a step towards me. And one more. So close now that she must have felt my warm breath against the side of her snow white face. I felt a blissful shudder run down my spine.
'Then meet me in Grandma's cottage in fifteen minutes' she whispered softly into my fur.
As she stepped back and walked onwards, I experienced a dull ache within me. Her lack of trepidation, her absence of reverence, left me longing for the reactions I deserved. Just a shudder or a twitching lip would have been enough to rekindle my sense of potence. Instead I found her delicate breath had created a shudder in me. Such effortless power made my sparse fur stand on end. I howled after her, imagining the racing of her little heart upon hearing me, then I dived back into the shrubbery of the forest floor.
I considered my options. The girl would be making her way to her Grandma's home and I would have been a fool not to be there upon her arrival. There was, however, the possibility that our arrangement was intended as a trick. With this in mind, I felt it best to arrive before expected, in order to gain a fuller understanding of the situation. I began bounding towards the old woman's home. I upped my speed again and dashed between the saplings. Cutting through the woodland and avoiding the path meant I arrived at the cottage in mere moments. Before long, I was face to face with a gnarled wooden door on a lone lodging. I knocked.
'Dear sweet Granddaughter, is that you?' sounded a voice of a decidedly lower tone than I had expected.
I hadn't considered the possibility of a Grandfather too. I cleared my throat and attempted to up my pitch considerably.
'Yes it is,' I replied in a coy tone. The result was pleasingly feminine.
'Come on in,' the voice croaked.
I slowly creaked the door open enough to peer inside. An old woman-shaped lump lay in bed by an open fire, curled up under a thick blanket. I opened the door further and crept in, closing it firmly behind me. She turned to face me. I tensed, awaiting a feeble shriek.
'Hello there,' she grumbled gruffly, 'you're not who I was expecting.'
Grandma, it seemed, was not the shrieking sort. I took a few steps towards her, hoping a closer proximity would unnerve her a little. She was not the frail nonagenarian I was expecting but a bulky individual with numerous thick hairs protruding from a fierce square chin. Her skin was thick and yellowed from a lifetime of heavy smoking: a fact that the room's discoloured walls provided evidence for. It seemed there was no Grandfather but a particularly robust woman.
'Would you like a spot of tea, dear?' she asked me.
Having failed to frighten her with my presence alone, I felt a little confused about what was expected of me in such a situation. Were the girl to arrive and find me sipping a cup of Earl Grey with her ageing Grandmother, I doubt she would have considered me the predatory fiend I hoped she might. I shook my head and attempted a devilish smile, displaying my fine array of razorish teeth. That ought to shake her up a bit. The old woman tilted her spectacles a little and upon recognising my expression, smiled back, displaying two tangled rows of rancid yellow gnashers. Suddenly she lurched forward, holding her abdomen, and opened her jaws to release a putrid belch of such magnitude that I took an involuntary step towards the door, my gums bleeding in sympathy for her own.
'Oh.' I said, gasping. 'What... big... teeth you have.'
I felt unsettled by my own words. The old woman looked charmed by them. This was not the chase I'd hoped for.
'I'm going to eat you,' I said, vomiting a little in my mouth.
It seemed I had little other choice. Were the girl to arrive and witness her Grandmother's nonchalance, she would not experience the awe and dread that I hoped she might. And perhaps the old woman would satiate my hunger, thereby diminishing the power the girl had over me with her flawless succulent flesh. I would be in complete control and she would submit to me with the greatest of reverence.
'Oh?' the old woman responded, grinning, with a glimmer of lust in her eyes.
'Yes,' I responded sternly, 'I'm going to gnaw on your leathery flesh'.
I was having trouble convincing myself of this but she seemed fairly excited by the prospect. I'd never experienced such willing prey. It removed much of the pride associated. I moved closer and sat sheepishly on the end of her bed. I avoided looking into those lascivious eyes, not for fear of remorse but rather repulsion of the glee I knew I would be met with. As I lunged towards her, she screamed with delight.
I do not feel compelled to tell you how I went about it. I've since tried to refrain from remembering. But her skin, if you must know, was like a hairy, perspiring Wellington boot. The wrinkles, however, were so deep set that the parts protruding most had a crunch to them. The fat, on the other hand, was so layered and stringy, so thick and revoltingly pungent, that I began to heave uncontrollably. I retched the old woman up and filled her bed with fetid vomit. My fur was matted with the viscous, acidic broth. I tried to shake it off me but the smell was such that I began retching again, covering myself further. I felt disgusted that I'd lowered myself to such meagre pickings.
It was on the edge of the vomit soaked bed that I sat, surrounded by the bones of the old woman, when the door creaked open. In the doorway stood the girl and as she looked at the bed and at me and inhaled the rotten odour, the corner of her mouth curled upwards, producing a crooked grin.
'Did you...' she began, a look of bemused astonishment taking over her.
With vomit on my paws, in my fur, on my face, I could tell no lie. My stomach felt as though it was literally being tied in knots, at the hands of a debauching pensioner.
'I...' I started. I could not find any words suitable.
The girl's face crumpled. Her brows became furrowed and her eyes stern. She looked straight at me while remaining perfectly still. Could it be that I'd frightened her at last? It had not been anything like how I had planned but she appeared awestruck none the less. I attempted a fierce smile, reminding her of my dangerous nature with the sight of my fangs. She raised her eyebrows and, quite unexpectedly, showered me with saliva as she exploded into a fit of laughter. She threw back her head, cackling and slapping her slender thighs.
'Nooo,' I howled with intense desperation. 'No, you can't laugh,' I cried.
I pulled my scraggly tail around my chest for comfort and let out an anguished cry.
'Stop it!' I snarled.
My protesting seemed to amuse her further. She leaned forward, grasping at her abdomen, snorting and sniggering. Suddenly, her laughter was interrupted by a deep booming voice from outside.
'I heard shrieking,' called the voice, 'what seems to be the matter, young girl?' A man of exceptionally large stature stood behind her in the doorway. His broad shoulders filled the door frame. His biceps were easily the width of her waist and the axe in his hand was noticeably sharp enough to relieve me of my head. Her eyes never left mine and as his joined them in inspecting my foul state, the two of them burst into yet more floods of excruciating cackles.
'The fierce wolf!' the man bellowed mockingly, 'Is this really it?'
'That's me' I grumbled, my insides aching. I leapt down from the acrid bed and laid myself out before him, my neck ready for the chop.
'Do me the honour,' I muttered, closing my eyes in anticipation. I felt a breeze from the axe as it swung down on to me. Unexpectedly, I felt an agonizing pain at the base of my spine and as I opened my eyes, I found my bare rear removed of its furry appendage. The man stood over me with my tail in his fist. With blood flowing from the stump, I scrambled through his legs and out into the open. The beast without a tail: hardly a beast at all.
Friday, 30 January 2009
Fiction: 'The Second Coming'
The Second Coming
Long beetle, copper shelled, a murky old penny scuttling across my shoe. Always there, each leg clicks across the polished leather and its bulbous head turns and looks up at me. I see malice in its every movement, its every crooked joint, it's blackened specks for eyes. It knows something. It definitely knows something. I look up, defiant. I am not drawn in to its world of deceit. Not today. I will not succumb to it's vile corporeality.
With my head up, shoulders back, I find that the beetle and I have company. Of course! I share platform 13 with a figure, a man. Youthful, he is, and tall, shoulders broad. A thick coat, similar in colour to the beetle, hangs from his broad frame with the drama of stage curtains, down to his leather-clad ankles: a fine disguise. He looks to the track awaiting the 20:10. His hair, long and thick, tumbles down his back in rippling shades of chestnut and auburn, meeting a beard of the same shades, with sunlight, of which there is none, reflecting off each hair. I look at his hands, gloved in black, and I imagine the bloody perforations that he hides: symbols of his passion, his unlimited devotion. I can almost see red stains on the black wool.
He turns, gently strolling, lighting up the platform with his eyes. And what eyes! The midday sun shines through them, into the darkness of the evening. The unquestionable kindness of creation resides there, in his plaintive smile. Then he turns and it's gone. I am left longing for that light.
I look at those feet, hidden under leather, and desire them in my hands, to bathe them, to cleanse them with my earthly brown locks as the unspeakable She once did. I could nurse those wounds, those treacherous sores. Just to be near him, to touch the organic shell, the ultimate flesh, the embodiment of transcendence, would set my soul alight, removing the mist of corporeality. My entire life has been leading up to this.
I sit on the cold plastic seat, so chilling that I apply as little weight to it as I can. It removes much of the joy of sitting, yet still I sit, and I wonder if it could really be Him. He turns, walking my way, and gives me a smile, just for a moment, and its all for me. If it is Him, this is my moment. I am Julian of Norwich. I am Margery Kempe. And no murky penny can take that from me. All of creation is but the size of a hazelnut for this man, and what I wouldn't give for him to put it in my hand. I rise and stand before him. He looks into my eyes.
“How unusual this is...” He says, with a smile so invigorating, so stimulating, that I must catch my breath. “...to find one so deserving.” He continues. His voice resonates around the platform, with such intensity that I lose all self awareness, all spacial awareness. He smiles and I find my hands clinging to my chest, the ends of my fingers digging into my ribs. His being there touches me while he stands paces away. I feel my heart, my lungs, are being held into place by this figure. He sees that I know his identity. He knows that a change of dress, a change of scene, of time, cannot fool a follower with the devotion that I possess. As I look into his eyes I see that he is staring into my soul, viewing all that I am. “You know me” I say, questioning only in part. He says nothing, but smiles. I feel smothered by fresh air. It is too fresh, so sharp it causes a sting, an exhilarating sting that reminds me of my creation.
His irises tell a thousand stories and a thousand reflections. I can see that he knows of my loneliness. He has heard of my loss, the rupturing of my heart. He has come to repair the shell that I have become in recent days. He understands the torment I feel, the crooked mockery I hear so often. Feelings of regret, of fear and resentment, they are blown away by the light and distant breath of this man.
“Saviour” I begin, tumbling over each consonant, conscious of the sound of my lips touching and separating, conscious of the rustling of my eyelashes as I blink. I breathe slowly, looking deep into his eyes. And he splutters, suddenly laughing, suddenly cackling cruelly. “My Lord?” I plead. He claps his hands and rubs them together, as if enjoying a dance, a crude comedy. He stamps one foot, throwing his head back, his hair tumbling provocatively down his back. I fail to understand his movements.
“You fool!” He exclaims, vehemently. “You will cling to a glance, a smile, a voice. For you have nothing.” His words pierce me, they reach into my rib cage, crushing all in their path. My legs can no longer carry me and I stumble, my rupturing organs failing to sustain me. The colour of his coat suddenly catches my eye once more, that murky copper, that cruel encapsulating shade. His eyes, once dazzlingly light, appear as dark spheres, as black specks. His smile is no more. Those repugnant mandibles, ready to sheer, to crush, with mucous dangling from them, protrude where his plaintive smile once rested. His legs: six of them. They click with every movement. And as I focus, crouched on the ground, I see that his tiny hard body resumes its place on my shoe. Treacherous beast. My despicable companion's malice knows no bounds. How I long to go on without this foul company, to push through my misery without this psychological parasite.
And with the noise of its engine, the arriving train reminds me of my surroundings. I shake my shoe with the hope of dispelling this unbearable creature but to no avail. As always, he clings to me, sucking my humour, my optimism. I board the train and make the lonely journey home.
Long beetle, copper shelled, a murky old penny scuttling across my shoe. Always there, each leg clicks across the polished leather and its bulbous head turns and looks up at me. I see malice in its every movement, its every crooked joint, it's blackened specks for eyes. It knows something. It definitely knows something. I look up, defiant. I am not drawn in to its world of deceit. Not today. I will not succumb to it's vile corporeality.
With my head up, shoulders back, I find that the beetle and I have company. Of course! I share platform 13 with a figure, a man. Youthful, he is, and tall, shoulders broad. A thick coat, similar in colour to the beetle, hangs from his broad frame with the drama of stage curtains, down to his leather-clad ankles: a fine disguise. He looks to the track awaiting the 20:10. His hair, long and thick, tumbles down his back in rippling shades of chestnut and auburn, meeting a beard of the same shades, with sunlight, of which there is none, reflecting off each hair. I look at his hands, gloved in black, and I imagine the bloody perforations that he hides: symbols of his passion, his unlimited devotion. I can almost see red stains on the black wool.
He turns, gently strolling, lighting up the platform with his eyes. And what eyes! The midday sun shines through them, into the darkness of the evening. The unquestionable kindness of creation resides there, in his plaintive smile. Then he turns and it's gone. I am left longing for that light.
I look at those feet, hidden under leather, and desire them in my hands, to bathe them, to cleanse them with my earthly brown locks as the unspeakable She once did. I could nurse those wounds, those treacherous sores. Just to be near him, to touch the organic shell, the ultimate flesh, the embodiment of transcendence, would set my soul alight, removing the mist of corporeality. My entire life has been leading up to this.
I sit on the cold plastic seat, so chilling that I apply as little weight to it as I can. It removes much of the joy of sitting, yet still I sit, and I wonder if it could really be Him. He turns, walking my way, and gives me a smile, just for a moment, and its all for me. If it is Him, this is my moment. I am Julian of Norwich. I am Margery Kempe. And no murky penny can take that from me. All of creation is but the size of a hazelnut for this man, and what I wouldn't give for him to put it in my hand. I rise and stand before him. He looks into my eyes.
“How unusual this is...” He says, with a smile so invigorating, so stimulating, that I must catch my breath. “...to find one so deserving.” He continues. His voice resonates around the platform, with such intensity that I lose all self awareness, all spacial awareness. He smiles and I find my hands clinging to my chest, the ends of my fingers digging into my ribs. His being there touches me while he stands paces away. I feel my heart, my lungs, are being held into place by this figure. He sees that I know his identity. He knows that a change of dress, a change of scene, of time, cannot fool a follower with the devotion that I possess. As I look into his eyes I see that he is staring into my soul, viewing all that I am. “You know me” I say, questioning only in part. He says nothing, but smiles. I feel smothered by fresh air. It is too fresh, so sharp it causes a sting, an exhilarating sting that reminds me of my creation.
His irises tell a thousand stories and a thousand reflections. I can see that he knows of my loneliness. He has heard of my loss, the rupturing of my heart. He has come to repair the shell that I have become in recent days. He understands the torment I feel, the crooked mockery I hear so often. Feelings of regret, of fear and resentment, they are blown away by the light and distant breath of this man.
“Saviour” I begin, tumbling over each consonant, conscious of the sound of my lips touching and separating, conscious of the rustling of my eyelashes as I blink. I breathe slowly, looking deep into his eyes. And he splutters, suddenly laughing, suddenly cackling cruelly. “My Lord?” I plead. He claps his hands and rubs them together, as if enjoying a dance, a crude comedy. He stamps one foot, throwing his head back, his hair tumbling provocatively down his back. I fail to understand his movements.
“You fool!” He exclaims, vehemently. “You will cling to a glance, a smile, a voice. For you have nothing.” His words pierce me, they reach into my rib cage, crushing all in their path. My legs can no longer carry me and I stumble, my rupturing organs failing to sustain me. The colour of his coat suddenly catches my eye once more, that murky copper, that cruel encapsulating shade. His eyes, once dazzlingly light, appear as dark spheres, as black specks. His smile is no more. Those repugnant mandibles, ready to sheer, to crush, with mucous dangling from them, protrude where his plaintive smile once rested. His legs: six of them. They click with every movement. And as I focus, crouched on the ground, I see that his tiny hard body resumes its place on my shoe. Treacherous beast. My despicable companion's malice knows no bounds. How I long to go on without this foul company, to push through my misery without this psychological parasite.
And with the noise of its engine, the arriving train reminds me of my surroundings. I shake my shoe with the hope of dispelling this unbearable creature but to no avail. As always, he clings to me, sucking my humour, my optimism. I board the train and make the lonely journey home.
Fiction: 'Love Story'
Love Story
She came to be at 25, at least that's when she noticed she was. It happened all of a sudden when somebody looked at her. She was sitting in a bus, cold and damp from the rain, and he sat beside her and she saw his stare. His pupils, intense and drilling, became a mirror and suddenly she came to realise her own being.
He who stared and sat beside her, a crumpled person in shades of brown and grey, became, consequently, the second person she noticed. Looking right back at him, she noticed a message written on his hand. It was smudged in black ink but she could see that it said 'be enthused' and being as she was, now present and actual, she felt inclined to enquire. He raised his blanched eyebrows and looked up, looked down, looked back at her, licked the sleeve of his jumper and scrubbed at the writing until his hand turned pinkish grey. Then he smiled, a long streak of colour on his otherwise barren head. He asked her name and told her he liked going to the theatre. And that it was his birthday. He looked older than 27. She felt newer than 25.
After some days, she noticed she liked holding his hand and so she held it and sometimes he kissed her. She noticed he smiled when he looked at her, the colour now more than a streak. After a week it spread to his eyes and she saw they were bright blue. He took her to the theatre and pointed out things she'd never noticed before about Beckett and Pinter and some others that she hadn't heard of. They bought a globe and she spun it and he stopped it, with his finger, at the place they should go to, even if only in their imaginations. It landed in the North Pacific Ocean so she spun again. He told her she made him smile and he stopped writing on his hands.
After some time, she noticed that when he thought no one was watching, he looked up and closed his eyes and breathed slowly. She wondered if he was in the North Pacific, trying to keep afloat. He didn't say. So she carried on holding his hand, and occasionally talking about Pinter and her imaginings. That always made him smile. Later she noticed he was getting smaller and the blue in his eyes started fading. He became more crumpled until eventually, he said he was going to stop. And he'd known for a while, since that day that she'd first noticed herself.
And he did stop and they wrote his name on a stone so that people would know that he had been. Knowing already, as she did, that he had been and likewise that she still was, she found it difficult keeping afloat, stuck out there in the North Pacific. Lost as she was, she went to the theatre, for the first time alone, and on her way home, she wrote 'be enthused' on her hand in black ink and tried not to smudge it.
She came to be at 25, at least that's when she noticed she was. It happened all of a sudden when somebody looked at her. She was sitting in a bus, cold and damp from the rain, and he sat beside her and she saw his stare. His pupils, intense and drilling, became a mirror and suddenly she came to realise her own being.
He who stared and sat beside her, a crumpled person in shades of brown and grey, became, consequently, the second person she noticed. Looking right back at him, she noticed a message written on his hand. It was smudged in black ink but she could see that it said 'be enthused' and being as she was, now present and actual, she felt inclined to enquire. He raised his blanched eyebrows and looked up, looked down, looked back at her, licked the sleeve of his jumper and scrubbed at the writing until his hand turned pinkish grey. Then he smiled, a long streak of colour on his otherwise barren head. He asked her name and told her he liked going to the theatre. And that it was his birthday. He looked older than 27. She felt newer than 25.
After some days, she noticed she liked holding his hand and so she held it and sometimes he kissed her. She noticed he smiled when he looked at her, the colour now more than a streak. After a week it spread to his eyes and she saw they were bright blue. He took her to the theatre and pointed out things she'd never noticed before about Beckett and Pinter and some others that she hadn't heard of. They bought a globe and she spun it and he stopped it, with his finger, at the place they should go to, even if only in their imaginations. It landed in the North Pacific Ocean so she spun again. He told her she made him smile and he stopped writing on his hands.
After some time, she noticed that when he thought no one was watching, he looked up and closed his eyes and breathed slowly. She wondered if he was in the North Pacific, trying to keep afloat. He didn't say. So she carried on holding his hand, and occasionally talking about Pinter and her imaginings. That always made him smile. Later she noticed he was getting smaller and the blue in his eyes started fading. He became more crumpled until eventually, he said he was going to stop. And he'd known for a while, since that day that she'd first noticed herself.
And he did stop and they wrote his name on a stone so that people would know that he had been. Knowing already, as she did, that he had been and likewise that she still was, she found it difficult keeping afloat, stuck out there in the North Pacific. Lost as she was, she went to the theatre, for the first time alone, and on her way home, she wrote 'be enthused' on her hand in black ink and tried not to smudge it.
Fiction: Mither
Mither
Wih werenae exacklae an ordinry familae, wir wih, Mither? It wiz just thi two ay us, aa those years. Eh musteh been a weird wee lad cuz eh rimember yih were meh best pal. Eh couldnae trust thi other wee laddies at school cuz wee laddies kin be wee shits but Eh could trust you, Mither. Yih wir aw-wiz there when eh goat back frae school, even though you hed yir joab at the cafe jurin the day. Eh knew yid be there, nevir questioned it. Yid aw-wiz be cooking somethin tae, braa it wiz. Lookin back, Eh dinnae ken how yih hed the time. Eh dinnae ken how yih managed it aa.
Dih yih mind, Mither, wen eh wiz ten or eleven, Eh gote intae a wee scrap wi the laddie frae doon thi road? Well, not a wee scrap so much as eh belter o een. His name wiz Georgie Swankie, wat a wee shit he wis. He said meh breeks wir tinky two-stripe and eh couldnae afford the gid eens. Eh wiznae that bothered but the wee kids on the street wir pishin themselves so Eh said he wiz a ginger poofter. Funny cuz 10 years later and he wiz tae. Eh heard he'd moved tae Glascae wi some poncey lad. But aye, when Eh said that tae him, he proper lost it and swung fir meh and aboot ten minutes later, his fither comes along and proper grabs meh by thi breeks and swings meh. Dih yih mind the state Eh wiz in, Mither? Eh wis aa dirt and scrapes and you wir furious but yih gave mih a proper gid cuddle cuz Eh wiz weeping like a wee girl. Yih asked meh wat happened and Eh aw-wiz telt yih thi truth and yih aw-wiz believed meh. Georgie's Fither nevir believed meh though. I got a hidin frae his brither the next day and kept meh mooth shut fir a wee wile. Dih yih mind, Mither? Eh didnae want tae go oot so yih played wee games wih meh in thi hoose efter school. Yih gote that game oot the cupboard, wi thi wee glass balls and the straws and weh played it fir oors. Eh mind laughing, Mither, cuz Eh knew yih wir cheatin.
And dih yih mind, Mither? Dih yih mind wen Mike the coal man took a shine tae yih? Eh musteh been mehbee... thirteen? Eh wisnae used tae haying men aboot the place and suddenly there's this joker hangin aboot, after yir attention aa the time. So I telt yih straight, Mither, I telt yih Eh didnae like it and yih said “Well Dereck, if you dinnae like Mike, than Eh dinnae like Mike” and he stopped being aroond the hoose and it wiz just the two o us again. That Mike the coal man wasnae gid enough fir yih, Mither. He wasnae right fir yih.
Eh'm a grown man now, Mither. Are yih proud o me? Eh'm older than Mike the coal man wiz wen he took a shine tae yih, back then. Weird tae think o it. Eh'm nae shovelin coal though. Naebidy's daeing that now.
Wat Eh wanted tae say, Mither, is that Eh'm sorry. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae look efter yih as well as Eh couldae done. Eh'm sorry that yih had tae live in that wee hoose all on yir ain when ye started tae forget. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae dress yih properly wen yih werenae able tae. Yih dressed me as a wee laddie, Mither, but Eh never dressed you like that wen yih gote old. Eh mind that yih were aw-wiz so smart lookin, Mither. Yih were the smartest lookin wifey on the scheme back wen Eh was a wee un. Yih never spent much money on yerself but yih had some pride.
So Eh'm sorry that Eh let yih go oot in your baffies wen the forgettin set in. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae dae yir hair in the morn. It wiz aa such a fuss, Mither, and Eh didnae aw-wiz hae the time. Eh'm sorry that Eh dressed yih in colours that didnae match, in colours that yih wouldnae have worn before the forgettin. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae aw-wiz feed yih healthy food, Mither. But yih got so angry, so difficult tae talk tae, so frustrated when yih couldnae remember. Eh just wanted some peace sometimes, Mither. Eh just wanted yih tae smile wi a bag o chips. Efter a wile Eh just wanted tae play a wee game wih ye, wi the glass balls and the straws, but yih didnae ken, Mither. Yih didnae even ken who I wiz some o the time. Eh'd stay in wi yih and try and find things tae make yih smile but Eh wasnae as good as you were, Mither. Eh didnae ken wit tae dae half the time.
Eh remember one day, I got yih up in the morn and it wasnae you. Yih opened yir eyes, Mither, and Eh couldnae see yih in there. Eh looked fir yih, Eh spoke like yih were in there, but Eh couldnae find yih. Eh think yid just popped oot coz yih came back in thi efternoon.
Yih got scared sometimes. Yih didnae ken wat yih were daeing or where yih were. Yih were like a wee lassie sometimes, Mither. Yih'd look at mih and yid ask fir yir ayn Mither and Eh couldnae help yih there. Eh went oot that night, Mither, dih yih mind? Eh went oot wi the boys for a couple o pints, just a few, ye ken? Eh left yih at 9, aa wrapped up warm in bed wi the light aff. Yih were sleeping like a wee baby wen Eh left but yih gote up. I wasnae there and yih gote up and put those baffies on yir feet and yih went for a wee stroll, even though it was freezin ootside. Eh wasnae there and yih didnae ken where yih were goin, did yih Mither? Yih walked tae the end o the road and yih found that wee tabby cat and yih followed it along a wee bit. And it took yih quite far, it took yih a-way far doon the next street and on tae the next een. It took yih tae the fields behind the hooses at the edge o toon, int that richt, Mither? And Eh wiz doon at the pub wi the lads, drinking meh pint, haein a gid laugh wi Roddie, haein a gid catch up. He telt me aa aboot his his new hoose and his jobe. Eh wasnae there, Mither, when you walked into the field in yir baffies, yir wee foot crunching doon on thi frozen grass. Eh wasnae there Mither, wen yih tripped and cracked yir wee head on the ground. Yih were shivering, Mither, weren't yih? Eh wasnae there tae hold yir hand, tae gie yih a wee cuddle. Eh'm sorry Mither. Eh'm sorry that yih died there alone.
But dinnae be fooled, Mither. Yih did a good job, yih brought me up well. It wasnae yir fault. Eh'll hae a wee laddie o me ayn someday, Mither, and Eh winnae let him oot meh sight. Eh'll play games wi him, Mither. Eh'll be the best Eh can be.
Wih werenae exacklae an ordinry familae, wir wih, Mither? It wiz just thi two ay us, aa those years. Eh musteh been a weird wee lad cuz eh rimember yih were meh best pal. Eh couldnae trust thi other wee laddies at school cuz wee laddies kin be wee shits but Eh could trust you, Mither. Yih wir aw-wiz there when eh goat back frae school, even though you hed yir joab at the cafe jurin the day. Eh knew yid be there, nevir questioned it. Yid aw-wiz be cooking somethin tae, braa it wiz. Lookin back, Eh dinnae ken how yih hed the time. Eh dinnae ken how yih managed it aa.
Dih yih mind, Mither, wen eh wiz ten or eleven, Eh gote intae a wee scrap wi the laddie frae doon thi road? Well, not a wee scrap so much as eh belter o een. His name wiz Georgie Swankie, wat a wee shit he wis. He said meh breeks wir tinky two-stripe and eh couldnae afford the gid eens. Eh wiznae that bothered but the wee kids on the street wir pishin themselves so Eh said he wiz a ginger poofter. Funny cuz 10 years later and he wiz tae. Eh heard he'd moved tae Glascae wi some poncey lad. But aye, when Eh said that tae him, he proper lost it and swung fir meh and aboot ten minutes later, his fither comes along and proper grabs meh by thi breeks and swings meh. Dih yih mind the state Eh wiz in, Mither? Eh wis aa dirt and scrapes and you wir furious but yih gave mih a proper gid cuddle cuz Eh wiz weeping like a wee girl. Yih asked meh wat happened and Eh aw-wiz telt yih thi truth and yih aw-wiz believed meh. Georgie's Fither nevir believed meh though. I got a hidin frae his brither the next day and kept meh mooth shut fir a wee wile. Dih yih mind, Mither? Eh didnae want tae go oot so yih played wee games wih meh in thi hoose efter school. Yih gote that game oot the cupboard, wi thi wee glass balls and the straws and weh played it fir oors. Eh mind laughing, Mither, cuz Eh knew yih wir cheatin.
And dih yih mind, Mither? Dih yih mind wen Mike the coal man took a shine tae yih? Eh musteh been mehbee... thirteen? Eh wisnae used tae haying men aboot the place and suddenly there's this joker hangin aboot, after yir attention aa the time. So I telt yih straight, Mither, I telt yih Eh didnae like it and yih said “Well Dereck, if you dinnae like Mike, than Eh dinnae like Mike” and he stopped being aroond the hoose and it wiz just the two o us again. That Mike the coal man wasnae gid enough fir yih, Mither. He wasnae right fir yih.
Eh'm a grown man now, Mither. Are yih proud o me? Eh'm older than Mike the coal man wiz wen he took a shine tae yih, back then. Weird tae think o it. Eh'm nae shovelin coal though. Naebidy's daeing that now.
Wat Eh wanted tae say, Mither, is that Eh'm sorry. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae look efter yih as well as Eh couldae done. Eh'm sorry that yih had tae live in that wee hoose all on yir ain when ye started tae forget. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae dress yih properly wen yih werenae able tae. Yih dressed me as a wee laddie, Mither, but Eh never dressed you like that wen yih gote old. Eh mind that yih were aw-wiz so smart lookin, Mither. Yih were the smartest lookin wifey on the scheme back wen Eh was a wee un. Yih never spent much money on yerself but yih had some pride.
So Eh'm sorry that Eh let yih go oot in your baffies wen the forgettin set in. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae dae yir hair in the morn. It wiz aa such a fuss, Mither, and Eh didnae aw-wiz hae the time. Eh'm sorry that Eh dressed yih in colours that didnae match, in colours that yih wouldnae have worn before the forgettin. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae aw-wiz feed yih healthy food, Mither. But yih got so angry, so difficult tae talk tae, so frustrated when yih couldnae remember. Eh just wanted some peace sometimes, Mither. Eh just wanted yih tae smile wi a bag o chips. Efter a wile Eh just wanted tae play a wee game wih ye, wi the glass balls and the straws, but yih didnae ken, Mither. Yih didnae even ken who I wiz some o the time. Eh'd stay in wi yih and try and find things tae make yih smile but Eh wasnae as good as you were, Mither. Eh didnae ken wit tae dae half the time.
Eh remember one day, I got yih up in the morn and it wasnae you. Yih opened yir eyes, Mither, and Eh couldnae see yih in there. Eh looked fir yih, Eh spoke like yih were in there, but Eh couldnae find yih. Eh think yid just popped oot coz yih came back in thi efternoon.
Yih got scared sometimes. Yih didnae ken wat yih were daeing or where yih were. Yih were like a wee lassie sometimes, Mither. Yih'd look at mih and yid ask fir yir ayn Mither and Eh couldnae help yih there. Eh went oot that night, Mither, dih yih mind? Eh went oot wi the boys for a couple o pints, just a few, ye ken? Eh left yih at 9, aa wrapped up warm in bed wi the light aff. Yih were sleeping like a wee baby wen Eh left but yih gote up. I wasnae there and yih gote up and put those baffies on yir feet and yih went for a wee stroll, even though it was freezin ootside. Eh wasnae there and yih didnae ken where yih were goin, did yih Mither? Yih walked tae the end o the road and yih found that wee tabby cat and yih followed it along a wee bit. And it took yih quite far, it took yih a-way far doon the next street and on tae the next een. It took yih tae the fields behind the hooses at the edge o toon, int that richt, Mither? And Eh wiz doon at the pub wi the lads, drinking meh pint, haein a gid laugh wi Roddie, haein a gid catch up. He telt me aa aboot his his new hoose and his jobe. Eh wasnae there, Mither, when you walked into the field in yir baffies, yir wee foot crunching doon on thi frozen grass. Eh wasnae there Mither, wen yih tripped and cracked yir wee head on the ground. Yih were shivering, Mither, weren't yih? Eh wasnae there tae hold yir hand, tae gie yih a wee cuddle. Eh'm sorry Mither. Eh'm sorry that yih died there alone.
But dinnae be fooled, Mither. Yih did a good job, yih brought me up well. It wasnae yir fault. Eh'll hae a wee laddie o me ayn someday, Mither, and Eh winnae let him oot meh sight. Eh'll play games wi him, Mither. Eh'll be the best Eh can be.
Fiction: 'Red Sand'
“Listen love, this is serious” the Inspector told me, as if there was any doubt in my mind. “The Mauritanian military are after you lot and we need to know exactly what happened!” Looking down at my feet, I could see the sand stains still on my trainers. It's funny how sand varies so much. In the Sahara, it's so fine and bright that it turns your clothes a terracotta colour. And there it was, as dizzyingly fresh as the image of that poor man, lying there in the sand, an image forever imprinted on my retina.
It could have happened to anyone, except that it wouldn't have. Most people go to Morocco and enjoy themselves, they spend some time at the beach, go round the markets, buy cheap souvenirs. But John wanted to see the sand dunes and Ed wanted to drive through the desert and Steph wanted to leave the tourists behind. And I, well... I wanted all of that, I didn't need much encouraging, really.
We'd left the other tourists behind within days of arriving there. Our first move was to get a bus to Western Sahara, the desert coast. With the occasional wild Camel to our left and fierce ocean to our right, the journey was breathtaking, in the most literal sense of the term. I frequently gasped at the sheer expanse of emptiness, the mystifying feeling of self negligibility.
We arrived at the most southern settlement occupied by Morocco: the Western Saharan town of Dakhla. It's a suspiciously attractive place, considering its unfathomable remoteness, with restaurants and shops lining a coastal promenade. The high-class car rental shop that Ed spotted somehow did not look out of place there, in the Sahara desert. I knew it was a bad idea to rent one. I knew we'd have problems. But it was exciting: the idea of roaring down desert roads, stopping to see the nomads and the camels. I found myself as enthusiastic as he was, even when we met Thierry. He was a Spanish business man, in the fish trade, who stopped when he spotted out naïve European faces. Upon hearing our plan to cross over to Mauritania, he warned us it was dangerous there. He told us that strange things happen in the desert, there were wide spread reports of slavery, he explained, before recalling the tale of an unfortunate French family, ruthlessly shot to death in the sand dunes. Ed caught my eye and raised his eyebrows, a nervous smile spreading across his sunburnt cheeks. We assured the thoughtful stranger that we would be careful and he smiled, presumably amused by our audacity.
The Inspector cleared his throat. “He was a military officer, the man who died” he informed me, narrowing his eyes further, trying to gage my familiarity with a such a man. I remained silent.
Ed had suggested we left the following day and we all agreed. The boarder police searched our car with bemused reticence: working outside in the desert, it seemed, was inconducive to jollity. Before long, we found ourselves breezing down the open road, past dunes in varying shades of gold, the dazzling sunlight glaring off them. The same road went on for hundreds of miles without another settlement and more often than not, there were no other vehicles in sight. Hoping to reach the capital, Nouakchott, while the sun was still high in the sky, Ed upped the pace, and we roared through the nothingness.
Before long, the four of us found ourselves squinting as we tried to make out a shape in the distance. Ed began to slow down, sighing to himself. Far from us on the boundless dusty road, a dark shape was moving. As the shape became clearer, Ed glanced at me, and I could see his mind too had turned to those murdered French tourists Thierry had spoken of. Out there before us was a lone figure with what appeared to be a rifle. “Put your foot down!” I yelled at him and we sped towards the armed figure, each of us visibly gritting our teeth. And he didn't move!
“Why didn't he move?” I realised I had thought aloud and found the Inspector biting his lip before me. I sighed and put my head in my clammy palms.
He didn't move. And we were too frightened to stop. He didn't move, he stood straight, gun pointing towards us, before smacking into the windscreen and landing face-down in the sand. Ed stopped the car and without hesitation, we all leapt out. Around his head, some of the terracotta sand had become blood stained and already, it seemed to be drying in the fierce heat of the sun. “I can't get caught for this! They still have fucking slaves! They probably have hangings!” Ed cried out. I couldn't tell whether it was sweat or tears running down his cheeks. “Lets go.” I said. “We'll get the next flight out of here.” And within 48 hours, we had flown back, were arrested in Heathrow and felt oddly relieved to be confronted with the hospitality of the British Police Force.
“Ok, I'll tell you what happened.” I told him.
It could have happened to anyone, except that it wouldn't have. Most people go to Morocco and enjoy themselves, they spend some time at the beach, go round the markets, buy cheap souvenirs. But John wanted to see the sand dunes and Ed wanted to drive through the desert and Steph wanted to leave the tourists behind. And I, well... I wanted all of that, I didn't need much encouraging, really.
We'd left the other tourists behind within days of arriving there. Our first move was to get a bus to Western Sahara, the desert coast. With the occasional wild Camel to our left and fierce ocean to our right, the journey was breathtaking, in the most literal sense of the term. I frequently gasped at the sheer expanse of emptiness, the mystifying feeling of self negligibility.
We arrived at the most southern settlement occupied by Morocco: the Western Saharan town of Dakhla. It's a suspiciously attractive place, considering its unfathomable remoteness, with restaurants and shops lining a coastal promenade. The high-class car rental shop that Ed spotted somehow did not look out of place there, in the Sahara desert. I knew it was a bad idea to rent one. I knew we'd have problems. But it was exciting: the idea of roaring down desert roads, stopping to see the nomads and the camels. I found myself as enthusiastic as he was, even when we met Thierry. He was a Spanish business man, in the fish trade, who stopped when he spotted out naïve European faces. Upon hearing our plan to cross over to Mauritania, he warned us it was dangerous there. He told us that strange things happen in the desert, there were wide spread reports of slavery, he explained, before recalling the tale of an unfortunate French family, ruthlessly shot to death in the sand dunes. Ed caught my eye and raised his eyebrows, a nervous smile spreading across his sunburnt cheeks. We assured the thoughtful stranger that we would be careful and he smiled, presumably amused by our audacity.
The Inspector cleared his throat. “He was a military officer, the man who died” he informed me, narrowing his eyes further, trying to gage my familiarity with a such a man. I remained silent.
Ed had suggested we left the following day and we all agreed. The boarder police searched our car with bemused reticence: working outside in the desert, it seemed, was inconducive to jollity. Before long, we found ourselves breezing down the open road, past dunes in varying shades of gold, the dazzling sunlight glaring off them. The same road went on for hundreds of miles without another settlement and more often than not, there were no other vehicles in sight. Hoping to reach the capital, Nouakchott, while the sun was still high in the sky, Ed upped the pace, and we roared through the nothingness.
Before long, the four of us found ourselves squinting as we tried to make out a shape in the distance. Ed began to slow down, sighing to himself. Far from us on the boundless dusty road, a dark shape was moving. As the shape became clearer, Ed glanced at me, and I could see his mind too had turned to those murdered French tourists Thierry had spoken of. Out there before us was a lone figure with what appeared to be a rifle. “Put your foot down!” I yelled at him and we sped towards the armed figure, each of us visibly gritting our teeth. And he didn't move!
“Why didn't he move?” I realised I had thought aloud and found the Inspector biting his lip before me. I sighed and put my head in my clammy palms.
He didn't move. And we were too frightened to stop. He didn't move, he stood straight, gun pointing towards us, before smacking into the windscreen and landing face-down in the sand. Ed stopped the car and without hesitation, we all leapt out. Around his head, some of the terracotta sand had become blood stained and already, it seemed to be drying in the fierce heat of the sun. “I can't get caught for this! They still have fucking slaves! They probably have hangings!” Ed cried out. I couldn't tell whether it was sweat or tears running down his cheeks. “Lets go.” I said. “We'll get the next flight out of here.” And within 48 hours, we had flown back, were arrested in Heathrow and felt oddly relieved to be confronted with the hospitality of the British Police Force.
“Ok, I'll tell you what happened.” I told him.
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