250 Words: Couple No 2: Couple in the hospital courtyards

In the hospital’s courtyards a reception is in progress.  Guests circulate, drinks in hand, and chat idly, gossip or talk business.  Among them a couple keep apart to stay together.  They keep to opposing courtyards, separated by people and cloisters.  Despite their separation, at moments it is like only they are there.  

One sits alone on a bench peeking through the columns and guests to see the other who, as guest of honour, is almost constantly engulfed with requests for information of various kinds and, as such, can only manage a fleeting glance back.  Every so often, though, their eyes meet and each feels an electric shiver.

At times, without the other in sight, they remember that more than space separates them: theirs is a love that cannot be expressed in public: the heat generated in private (and those electric shivers) makes them too scared to approach one another at this and other events.  The wrong time, the wrong place is their curse and their fear. 

Still, later that day they know that, by gaslight, they can do whatever they please so long as the guest of honour’s wife does not detain him.  She is an ever-present thorn in their side.  A family friend he had been driven towards since childhood, they often call her the cold stone and laugh before lighting up a second cigarette.  Each moment alone is precious, every kiss, every touch.  Any act that cannot be performed in those courtyards for fear of their love’s discovery.

250 Words: Couple No 1: Couple at the coast

I see them every day and the same unanswered questions whirl about my head.  Why are they out there and what do they seek to achieve?  I come here to be alone: just me and the sound of the sea but why are they here out on that platform?  I know the answer is clear and obvious, the question futile- maybe infantile, even, like, Do they come alive at night?- yet I think it every day.

More pressing are my other questions.  If they are A Couple and not just a couple, then why do they stand apart?  Why do they not hold hands as I do when I’m here with my husband?  What has come between them to form the space in between them?  What do they say to one another, if indeed they are on speaking terms?  Sometimes I think I would give anything in order to be able to go and find out.  Alas, however, I cannot.  No matter how many days I come and sit on the sand, their secrets will never be given up to me.

Occasionally I think that perhaps, after all, they are just a couple of people, unconnected except by the platform they share, that I shouldn’t concern myself: they are just art at the end of the day.  But then I return and think- no- they are each still all the other has in the world- why shouldn’t they be more?  Why shouldn’t I question and hope that there is Hope?

250 Words: The President reflecting afterwards

The President thought about the good he had done for his country- its rescue from oppressors who ruled before him and its unification being just the start.  Every year of his rule, Brihalbus had taken the country further forward, further away from the tyranny of before and closer to the country of his vision.

He was a man who had come from nowhere to lead.  Just an ordinary man who had ascended from nothing to be chosen by the people to alter the ways of the past.  Power that had been entrusted and bestowed in him.  And it was for him to decide the method.  For him to decide the direction.  And no one could change that.

Except maybe one person. 

The President looked up at the sun and reflected on how it saw everything- even at night its light reflects and keeps watch.  Only once a month did man gain a guaranteed, and brief, rest from its watchful eye.  He spoke to her often, discussing his plans past, present and future.  She never responded, only listened.  But like no one else listened.  She heard his words with care and reverence.  Not with the barely disguised fear inherent in others.  No, she was his companion, his confidant.  But- sometimes- his judge.

He looked quickly away from the sun: to the clouds, to the sky- anywhere but to see what he had done.  Sometimes it got too much.  But always he thought of the good.  The good that pulled him through.

250 Words: Little goblin at the battle’s end

Following the defeat of the Overearthers, the little goblin ran under the ever-extending shadow toward the area where the Goblin Infantry had fought.  He charged, in fact, down the slope, faster and faster until he lost his balance and tumbled down instead, springing up at the bottom to run forward through scores of dead and dying bodies, the latter crying out in pain or for their mothers, all issuing a final prayer for themselves and their loved ones back home soon to be living under the shadow.

He skipped over limbs and heads and other body parts that littered the battlefield alongside the being they had once been a part of.  Before too long the little goblin found his switcheroo friend face down, a dagger in hand that he’d taken from his boot after giving up on the sword that he had swapped his bow and arrows for.  It had served him alright, the dagger, slitting a throat or two and finding a gap in the ribs of the thing that slew him.

The little goblin turned his friend over to see a look of fear- the eyes seeming to focus on something distant and horrible.  The little goblin shivered and closed the lids.  Then he started to cry- just a small stream at first rolling down his cheeks.  Then his shoulders shuddered and he broke down, holding his friend’s body and whispering a thousand apologies until a scaly claw gripped his shoulder and the little goblin’s new life began.

250 Words: Little goblin at the start of battle

In the very first volley the little goblin saw the problem.  The arrows of his fellow goblin archers quickly used their inherited magical properties, turning to spears or bolts or harpoons; while some set on fire mid-journey and others became stone or molten rocks shortly before making contact.  His- or rather those of his friend did not.

Suddenly scared again the goblin glanced far below him to the ranks of the goblin infantry and saw many goblins swinging their swords like they were children with sticks- one poor soul however was left on the start line, his sword too heavy to lift.  Clearly doomed, the goblin was praying furiously for it to shift.

Maybe someone had told him this would happen, perhaps it had only been alluded to.  Either way the little goblin was sure he should have known about this, or that he and his cohort should have been more honest in their reasons for suddenly joining units so late on.  All he knew for sure was that a nasty sense of foreboding was filling him up.

He wanted to take action, and thought about trying to get forward and put things right but there were too many goblins in between and surely too much ground to cover.  And, anyway, to break ranks would surely end with an arrow lodged in the back of his head.

All he could do was carry on with his task in the full knowledge that his little switcheroo had cost someone their life.

250 Words: Little goblin before the battle

The chants and drums of both sides tied a knot in the little goblin’s stomach and he began to feel sick.  The sound reverberated back and forth filling and scaring the minds of all those too nervous to take part, the out of sync drums only adding to the sense of unease.

The scene of the opposition was what scared the little goblin most, though.  A ghastly array of creatures from the underearth all lined up, full of fire and bile; the sort of which he could only imagine producing.  He was ultimately a good natured creature who rarely lost his temper and was sure he would not be able to bring out the sort of bloodlust required to fight hand to hand.  Hence he had been so pleased to switch places and wind up some distance away with his bows and arrows.

Before long, however, the little goblin’s hands started to shake and he began to wonder how he would fire the arrows waiting in their quiver.  Alone with his thoughts he started to wish for the start of proceedings to give him something else to concentrate on.  The wait had gotten too much by far- he needed the whistle to still his hands, his bow and arrow to occupy them, and his eyes to stop taking in the whole scene and see only a point in the distance within the army opposite.

Finally it did and the little goblin reached for and loosed his first arrow in anger.

250 Words: Little goblin preparing for war

Once across The Sleeve, the little goblin didn’t have to travel far to find the resisting armies.  All along the coast were camps full of all kinds of creatures training to stop and drive back the Dark Warrior’s armies to whatever crack in the earth they had crawled out from.

In one such camp the little goblin was supposed to be learning to use his sword but, as he could barely lift it, using it to fight was an impossibility.  He knew it was supposed to alter once in battle, to grow lighter, and sharpen itself, but the little goblin could not see the point of this if he had not gained enough training to be able to use it properly- to attack and defend like his comrades were learning.

Elsewhere another young, but taller and much stronger, goblin was struggling with the bow and arrow his elders had sent him forward with.  The whole procedure was too fiddly for his great carrot-sized fingers and he longed for a weapon to grip and swing.

The two met in the dining area, starting to chat idly as they did every night with a different goblin.  This time, though, when they spoke of their dissatisfaction with their weapons, a plan of switcheroo was the swift and logical conclusion.

And so the pair carried on in one another’s places, each pleasing their new instructors with their superior abilities.  And they themselves felt better prepared for their war against the coming danger of darkness. 

250 Words: Little goblin off to war

The little goblin made his way over fields and hedgerow to make his way to the war. To the east he could see the edge of the dark cloud that threatened every sort of being in the world from giant right down to mouse. Even the goblins, often resistant to such problems, would find themselves under the cosh if the Dark Warrior made it far enough and, as such, the little goblin had been kitted out and sent forward by his kin. Sent forward to join the ranks of the Goblin Corps, in whatever regiment he was selected by. Sent forward to victory over the armies of the spreading land of shadow. Sent forward to protect his people from slavery. Sent forward in armour too big for him and with a sword he could barely raise, and that seemed somewhat blunt. He'd begged them to let him take a slingshot or arrows and a bow only to be told that such weapons were unbecoming of a goblin. Allegedly the sword would become lighter and keener as he approached the fight. For now though the little goblin cursed it as he headed for the coast and his voyage to war. Deep within the little goblin knew he should join this fight. All his life he'd avoided violence but this threat was so unrelenting and massive that the little goblin knew he must be one of the many to stand against it. Even if it was true that it couldn't be stopped. 

250 Words: Green and Red

The faceless ones haunt the people’s imaginations as they move smoothly, soundlessly, along the tracks.  In a world of faces they unnerve.  Thrown off guard the people stare at the aliens before fleeing, the faceless ones scorched into their mind’s eye.  The people of the island then dream about Green and Red, waking up sodden in cold sweat, gasping for air, seemingly forever damaged by what they have seen.  Frequently shivering and whimpering at the memory of those without faces.  Soon too scared to walk by the railway lines in case they see them again.

Thomas and his friends are equally as disturbed- their dreams filled with Green and Red- streaks of colour resulting in derailment and destruction.  But when they come round in the engine shed the two locomotives are present, no expression to be seen, Thomas and co not knowing if they are being watched or if the faceless ones are sleeping soundly.  Regaining sleep normally becomes near impossible as they stare petrified at the engines without faces.

The Fat Controller attempts to reassure his charges, to settle their nerves, to try and get them to speak with their new colleagues.  He says that such an approach will lead them to see that Red and Green are just like them, just want to be friends.  He knows it will be difficult but that if he can get the locomotives with faces to accept Red and Green, then the fear spreading across Sodor will surely, eventually, fade away completely.

Snapshot of a waiting room

She was on the phone to a close relative or friend, relaying the horrific news the doctor had just given her.  Clearly affected, seeking a way to cope, after the phone call she sat in silence.

He was on his phone almost constantly, silent and sat the other side of the room.  The most animated he got was in reaction to the weather events happening outside the window.

We, sat opposite, sometimes my arm round her, exchanging kisses and (what I hoped were) calming words. 

We, drawing our own conclusions while seeking not to, knowing we did not know everything or could see everything except what was in that frame; trying not to judge while doing so on the strength of the evidence we had, when virtually the whole of their existence was outside that frame.

Perhaps, dear reader, you have too.

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Written for entry in The Bridport Prize, 2013.

250 Words: The story of the passport and the dodgem token

The passport, Liocorn, and the dodgem token, 3, had been friends for some time (by their terms of measurement) on top of an apartment table.  “Hello, how are you today?” Liocorn might say, 3 often replying, “Yeah, good mate, thanks, yeah.”  And through the day the pair would talk about their lives before or play games such as I-spy or three coin football.

All was great until the day Liocorn got to thinking about things.  Things like his size relative to that of 3.  About his relative importance in the greater scheme of things.  And about how 3 was a suddenly very annoying luminous colour.  And life began to change on that apartment table top.

Liocorn would stand up, fan out, look down on 3 and bellow orders at the small round piece of plastic.  And so a life of luxury began for Liocorn while 3 returned to days of servitude.

“I didn’t escape the fair in Ian’s pocket for this,” 3 would sniff while making snacks for his master and he himself got round to doing some thinking.

And so the Second Day of Change came when 3 finally snapped and fought Liocorn to the death, first pushing the fascist to the floor, dragging his stunned body to, and through, the missing pane in the door and, against all odds, won a brief fight on the balcony that resulted in Liocorn falling to the street below.

And that’s how Graham lost his passport (if you ignore various so-called “facts”).

250 Words: Stuff inspired by phrases picked out from 250 (Jumbled) Words: Break-ups within after months a few major two, No 1: OVS: Our severed celebrities

Our severed celebrities is a dream.  A recurring dream I have in which I happily survey fields of dead celebrities, their veins severed and emptied of their scarlet life juice.  Out it flows from the dead remains and settles under my boots, probably making them more valuable.  The scene is at night, lit by a bonfire of the literature that seeks to elevate them.  A bonfire I built personally as, before death found them, the crowds tearfully watched on.

OSC is a flight of fantasy, built as my blood boils at people whoring out their wedding days.  “IS NOTHING SCARED ANYMORE!?!” I want to bellow into their ears.  Or when certain headlines appear, “IT’S NONE OF OUR BUSINESS!  THIS IS NOT IN THE PUBLIC INTEREST!” before picking up my broadsheet.  When it’s the television adverts I simply switch off and sit fuming, angry at what the world has created.

And I wind up thinking about celebrities severed and smile a happy smile as people break down at the realisation that I have committed what they call genocide.  “Not so special anymore?” I ask, a feeling of satisfaction in my face.  I walk away proudly, knowing that I have taken away something from the dumb, knowing I have improved the entire country, having previously seen it go to the dogs.

Then I come to in the staff room to see wedding photos of people I don’t know and secrets revealed I don’t want to know and OSC remains an illegal wish.

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FYI: 250 (Jumbled) Words - follow Jumbled tag for others from it, too.

250 Words: Eye of the beholder

I can remember the days of long hair and those of spikes.  I can remember the Thomas the Tank Engine clothes (especially the red “Peep Peep” jumper and the t-shirt and shorts combination), that checked hooded top with poppers and a grey hood that I did the Alien impression thing with (though I hadn’t seen the film at the time), the denim jacket and those weird trousers we bought in Peru.  Until fixing on plain and simple combinations (and the occasional band t-shirt).

I can remember days in mountainous and relatively flat countries of various colours and contrasts, seeing choppy seas, gentle streams and great wide rivers lined by either buildings of great import or willow trees dipping their fingers into the cool running waters.  And seeing equal beauty in each and every scene.

And I remember days of roving from one face to another, from body to body, checking out eyes, hair, mouths and skin, taking each in and smiling at what I saw, sometimes handing it on to the old memory banks.  Even if no one else did.

Until that day, at some point after I had first picked out the woman from down the steps (one of those in the offices that used to be ours), when he finally started to talk to her and make things happen,  when what lies behind me and below me fixed my settings to see only her.  To see beauty elsewhere and not care because the beholder had found someone special.

250 Words: Annoying the staff at a well-known High Street bank

So I’m in a well-known High Street bank filling out a paying-in slip of a (pay) cheque (the biggest I have EVER received; which is nice) and there is this beeping coming from my right.

I try and ignore it, continue with the slip- writing out the date, account details, amount or whatever but eventually look round to see money sticking out of a cash machine, its owner having left the building- something I know because I have checked.

I go back to what I was doing, thinking it’ll get sucked back up, it’ll be fine.  But the beeping, it continues- it gets in my head, stirs it around, increases nerves and/or tension and, naturally, I panic and take the money.

No, no, faithful reader, I don’t put it in my pocket.  Yet.  I pop it in front of me for the mo’, see if the chatty chap who left it returns.  I pay in me cheque, cash in pocket now, but still there is no returning recoverer so I approach a member of staff and explain what has happened.  She doesn’t seem too bothered, I don’t think.  Until I hand her the money.  Then she looks agitated .  I sort of murmur the question, “Would it have been sucked back up?”  She seems to say, “Yes” and is clearly perturbed at the extra work that I have given her.

Balls and tools.  Guess I’ll leave it if there is a next time.

She thanked me, though, all the same.

250 Words: Improv aka Ramblings 2

Smaug Asborde was feeling despondent again.  Sixty years as ruler of sixty star systems had taken its toll and all he wanted to do these days was sit about the house and occasionally lift a leg to release some flatulence.  His daily snacks of large worms farmed from the planet Earth seemed to have that effect on him.  Every day he would swear to leave them alone forever but then his son and daughter would appear and offer their daddy a well-deserved treat for the day.  And he would commence to sit about and do sod all.  And so he never seemed to do any ruling any more.  Sometimes he would wonder who was doing it all.  There used to be all sorts of things to do and sign.  Not now.  Presumably because he never left his private chambers to go and do it.  And he used to be so gung ho about it all- keen and ready each day to get up and rule the empire he had created as a young, and then middle-aged, man.  That zeal of old had died away.  Around about the time he had started on the worms.  But his brain didn't tell him this on account of the worms.  So a despondent despot become useless continued to sit and ruminate over his life, remembering the good battles and the old, the uprisings beaten down and all the comrades stabbed in the back at the start, never recognising the look in his children's eyes.  

250 Words (x2): Memories of Sergeant Lucas

It’s difficult to forget him- a very queer man indeed.  We’re out in the jungle facing death daily and all he could think of was, well… I suppose I was jealous of the man- he had such perfect ways of escaping the war.

The rest of us spoke constantly of home, missing food, of the next rest period; rotated round and around the same subjects.  Lucas was always off creating his own private world to live in.  Where Tolkein had Middle Earth, our Sergeant had religion and his hobby.

His Bible was with Lucas throughout his service and he read a section of it every day.  Most us felt we were getting too close to our maker as it was without embracing religion when at rest, whether or not it had been with us before.  To try and get closer seemed insane.  Still, such belief must have been comforting in the face of the stories we heard about the enemy.  As must have been a true belief when the bullets were flying rather than the knee jerk religion I acquired.

Mostly, though, we did find it weird for someone to read The Bible in such surroundings.  I can remember avoiding the Padre at all costs on a Sunday.  Of course, just before an action I was always made a hypocrite, running straight to him looking for divine protection or comfort in death.  It was just.. jealousy, as I said, and wanting to escape further from the war in that respect.

And there was his hobby.  Back home Lucas was a collector of insects.  Presumably somewhere in his home were great wooden cases with tray after tray of creatures carefully pinned and labelled.

When he found out where we were posted he must have burned brightly inside.  Wherever we went I’m sure he’d have had a field day but.. well, the jungle must’ve been a richer mine than the desert or Europe.  Certainly he was in his element once out in the tropics.  Everywhere he looked his eyes would light up as he saw specimens that would be new additions to his collection.  (Much like myself and my children with cigarette cards and my grandchildren with their sticker albums).  Forward he would step with purpose and meaning otherwise unseen, a jar in his hand, ready to trap, freeze and send the poor devils home.  Whatever we were doing and however close to danger, that canny NCO always seemed to have an eye out for his next find.  Not that he could always capture- often he would just store the memory for when he could.

Again, most of us already felt too close to these things.  Every night we were woken by some bastard thing on us.  The idea of sticking them in jars as souvenirs was horrific.  And it wasn’t just butterflies and beetles- blooming hornets and other dangerous things to mess with were caught.  A madder man I have never met: Sergeant Lucas was one mighty queer bugger, believe me.