250 Words: Sleep tonight

Lay down, my child, in your tiny bed and sleep soundly tonight.  Take your favourite bear under your arm, hold him close, close your tired eyes and drift sweetly away to dance the sandman’s dance in the Kingdom of Nod.

And sleep easily tonight.  Dream not of ghouls and beastly things.  I will pray for protection to surround that delicate head of yours, for angels to keep the dark at bay, to keep you from fearing the darkest corners of your room.  The corners where there is nothing to fear, sweetheart; nothing.  It is only your mind playing tricks that tells you so and in time you will learn to tame it.

Sleep well tonight.  Fall deep from this world, rest up for tomorrow, a big day.  Let the night take the bags of tiredness away from you and replace them with energy renewed; let the night refresh your soul and return you to us as a sprightly infant ready for school.

Sleep happily tonight, dream of your happiest place, adventure with your toys in the magical realm beneath your sheets and beyond the end of your bed where you rule as only a child can.  Awake with memories and stories to share.

And if you should not, run to us and shelter in our arms and our warmth.  Let us protect you from harm, together we can chase the demons away.  Far away we shall send them and return you to that happy dream.

Goodnight.  Sleep tight.  Sweet dreams.

250 Words: Book immersion

I get lost continuously in the worlds created in my mind by the shapes made by ink on paper.  Like Alice crawling down the rabbit hole I enter wonderland after wonderland immersing myself wholly in these strange new worlds.

Even when I have marked and closed the books, my brain carries on, pretending I’m doing something like wandering around a misty moor dressed like it’s more than a hundred years ago or walking the streets of Victorian London dodging pickpockets and shady characters.

I go too far, though, the emotional cost draining me entirely so that it is some time before I can carry on to another book and put myself through the mill again, the issues rolling through my mind and not letting me get on with my own life as I worry about the characters and what will happen to them next.  I even changed my name to Jane hoping Mr Rochester would come to call.

Escaping from Vienna, distanced from my family by space and age, it is probably not surprising I opt for this bubble existence, these escapist fantasies; especially in these beautiful surroundings that cause the mind to dream.  Real life keeps letting me down, after all, while books can’t let me down, they can only transport me to places still full of trials and tribulations, but ones that are normally resolved and don’t drag on with no end in sight.  Even if these worlds do stay with me too long they still complete me.

250 Words Christmas Special: Storeman Norman the Gnome (2)

Now everyone knows that elves make toys for Santa to deliver at the North Pole but few know about the gnomes who look after the stores, employed because this role requires a taller kind of magical folk.  The gnome who runs the store is a particularly tall and well organised Storeman called Norman and this is the story of how he saved this year’s Christmas.

It all happened because of Global Warming (or Climate Change I think the fashionable phrase is nowadays).  The North Pole snows were melting and the resulting ice cold water started to enter the Great Store of Presents (neatly ordered by Norman into the order of delivery from New Zealand to Alaska) at an alarming rate. 

Nothing was stacked on the floor, of course, due to this possibility and because of the wetness spread by various folk coming into the store from outside, however the water was rising darned fast and was soon approaching the bottom shelf!

Quick as a flash, Norman grabbed a pickaxe and began to hammer at the floor through the rising water and was soon encouraging (well, ordering) his workers to join him.  Onward he led them and together the store gnomes dug a trench all the way to the sea, down which drained the floodwaters.  After this they then helped out all of the North Pole folk by linking other flooded buildings to their drainage trench. 

And thus Christmas was saved from “Climate Change” by a clever Storeman Gnome called Norman.

250 Words Christmas Special: Storeman Norman the Gnome (1)

Norman is a the gnome who lives at the North Pole.  He looks after the Great Store of Presents which slowly fills each year as the elves make presents for every child in the world and then empties quickly on Christmas Eve as Santa prepares for his annual run. 

Norman used to be quite a miserable soul, though.  He and his team of gnomes weren’t known about outside of the Arctic.  It was understandable that Santa and the reindeers are so well known but otherwise the elves got all the glory for manufacturing the gifts while the gnomes were completely ignored.  And they did a fine job, Norman thought, sorting and organising all the gifts within the warehouse to help Santa in the delivering (a method copied by Royal Mail among other delivery organisations) and keeping them safe and dry from the elements- they deserved at least a mention from time to time.

One day, Norman was sat on a snowy mound smoking his pipe when a little polar bear walked by, saw Norman and said, “Hello there, why do you look so glum?”  And so Norman told the bear about his gnomes’ lack of fame and the bear sat thoughtfully and said, “Well, I have contacts on the internet; I think I might be able to persuade a young man to help change this situation.”

And with that the little polar bear wandered off and soon began a chain of events that would end in this and part two.

250 Words: Imagined conversations (The new battle)

Rehearsals in my mind for something that hasn't actually started yet.  Something left quickly and unsaid- regret may yet sleep in a bed.

The product of an over-active imagination, a more realistic part of your mind telling you to stop thinking about it, to shut the FUCK UP!

Rehearsals in daydreams for something that may yet happen.  That job interview mentality- rolling situations around to better enable answers to questions and aid conversations that might occur.

The product of too much thinking; and certainly nothing intellectual.  Just dreams to get you through the day.  You haven’t actually made a move yet, remember, not received an answer.

Rehearsals for the future, whatever it may hold.  Whether now, or much later, imagined conversations may yet hold me in good stead.

The product of no guts, no balls, no brains for real life and of too much time alone.  Your a coaster, a dreamer, a fuckwit.  Words unsaid are less than pointless, are vessels that won’t ever be filled.

Rehearsals of hope, then.  Readying oneself so that when it comes it doesn’t slip through your fingers.

The product of dumb hope- remember that phrase?: you’ve avoided writing about it for years; and you know full well that if you stand about on the boundary for years you’ll only miss the ball hit straight at you.

Well, maybe, yeah.

Exactly.  And have you even looked at the pictures.  She would never go for you.

I can still dream, can’t I?

Yeah, whatever.  Fucking idiot.

---

Note: The part of the title in brackets refers to something I wrote much earlier than this (May 2009) - in fact there are a few references to earlier teenage ramblings, of which , as I said, is a throwback to the one below.  Also, though, it all sounds depressing I fondly remember writing the above while laughing at having started to make a breakthrough from my shier self - one that ultimately ended up with meeting my wife.  Oh, and never fear - there will be a Christmas story over the next two days!

The Battle

I’ll ask her out tomorrow.

No you fucking won’t.

I will. I’m strong enough.

You aren’t. You spineless freak.

I am.. I will, she’ll say yes too.

No she won’t, why would she?

‘Cause she likes me… I’ve heard.

You don’t even know.

I do.. the looks she gives me..

As if to say- I’ve never seen such an ugly freak.

No it’s something else.. in her eyes.

No, it’s repulsion, horror- remember, I see it too.

Is it?

Yes. She hates you. All women do.

It’s not as if you’re good looking or anything.

True, I best not bother, then.

Exactly, save yourself the pain.

Yeah, your right.

I know.

28/12/1999

250 Words: One line

One line smudged by dots across the treeless landscape.  Gassed and left upon the dust to become one with it.  Hate breeds death once more and the earth weeps.  The need for control falls upon a people like a fist onto a desk and changes everything.

One line trudges.  One line displaced.  One line shuffles onward with heavy feet like stones working through the mud.  Behind lies everything.  Everything has passed.  Ahead lies anything. Anything is now desirable.  And, in one line, they are not alone.  And perhaps that will be the key. 

For where there is life there is hope.  Even displaced to foreign lands one line, huddled and massed, can carry on in hope of return to a land healed and regrown.  To return to homes abandoned and dilapidated, to be restored and renewed to a former glory of civilisation whose lungs were asphyxiated. 

One line drawn around them, imprisoning in one lump the survivors.  New homes that would be alien to anyone.  Reliant on the care of others.  Where there is life there is hope.  A forced migration is unwelcome but it is better than death.  Survival is the finest form of resistance.  If, as one line, they can survive then the mustachioed man has not won, cannot win.

Yet one line lives on in limbo.  Unable to really live until their lives are restored.  Hope there may be, alone they are not, but without outside help they are stuck in makeshift homes in a foreign land.

---

Note: Inspired by an art exhibition held at the Imperial War Museum in 2008 called Displaced by the artist Osman Ahmed which is reported on here and here with videos here.

250 Words: Regret sleeps in a tent

A whole night time of chances having passed by, regret sleeps in a tent.  Maybe she wasn’t interested, maybe she was too young (the latter something his friend had no problem with).  Whatever.  Not so much as the merest contact came to be.  And so regret sleeps in a tent.

They saw their friends make out, left them to it.  Then walked through the campsite, talked, met some guy smoking, spoke to him (he longed for the fucker to fuck off, nice as he was), then came back and sat in her tent doing the same- just talking.  Neither made a move.  And so regret slept in a tent.

Or so the idea runs.  Maybe he was regretful as he lay his head down, most of the night having gone by and the Red Hot Chili Peppers a distant memory.  But what really started the regret happened the morning after:

Having packed up, her and her friends started the walk away, never to be seen again.  Thirty seconds or so away she suddenly shouted back her opinion of him.  Being reasonably clueless he simply shouted back, “Thanks,” and began to pack up his own monkeys and parrots.

Maybe the regret ultimately came later but the memory of that regret will forever sleep in a blue tent on an August night in 2001- only to unzip and exit the door when a monumental enough event occurs to wipe away the memory of regret for not leaning in and taking a chance.

250 Words: She made me burn the letters page by page

We met by moonlight and sat on the swings talking all evening.  We never even kissed, it was so innocent. We were kids.  I was twelve years old.

He would leave me letters in a box buried under a large stone in the flower beds.  The smell of lavender still takes me back to those months of happiness.  We would write of our hopes and dreams, funny incidents occurring at our respective schools- all those things we would otherwise talk about on our swings.

I would write on lavender paper, sprayed with rosewater.  He on white watermarked writing paper.  I kept my bounty of paper, tied with red ribbon, under my pillow by night and under the floorboards by day. 

Until the day my mother found us together sat holding hands on our swings for what would be the last time and dragged me kicking and screaming back to the house to cleanse me of him.

She wouldn’t listen to my pleas.  He was sixteen and she wouldn’t believe in our innocence, claiming he was after our money.

The tears burned my face as his words blackened and crumbled to ash.  My hands felt dead, like someone else’s, as they fed each leaf to the flames against their own will.

I could barely see as she forced us to say goodbye and packed me off to boarding school.  My rosy worldview shattered for the first and last time.  I soon became hardened, having taken the first step through my metamorphosis.

250 Words: Morning youth

He wakes up alert, having dreamt about her but with straight hair- apparently enough of a change to alter her entire perception of him.  One hand moves south and gains a liquid start to the day and he thinks, “Is there a finer start to the day?” as he cleans up the sticky mess.

Lying in the morning light, waiting to deflate and be decent, he breathes slowly and smiles at the peace surrounding him.  Apart from the smell, everything inside his bubble of a room is just right: from the posters to the piles of CDs, DVDs and books.  It is a little haven for him from family, from school, even from friends.  Moments like these, lying awake before the true start of the day, are the moments he lives for: peace and quiet before the bubble bursts.

Grudgingly, having heard a call from somewhere else, he swings his legs out of bed and dons the weekday uniform.  Then he stands staring at the back of the door to psyche himself up for all that will follow.

He opens the door and is immediately hassled by his sister.  Breakfast is a noisy affair.  Moyles is somehow more annoying than normal.  The bus is late and crowded, he has to stand.  The classroom is a cacophony of youths screaming and yelling.  The first headache of the day arrives and he longs to be going back in bed, staring through his bedroom at the moon while his hand thinks of her.

250 Words: Mourning youth

Bent completely at the knee and hip, naked, hair tied in a bun, her face buried in wet palms, youth mourns before a plain wooden cross in a bleak, pitted landscape.

No comfort can be found in this age of boys driven to death among those waterlogged craters.  And so she weeps into her hands for those lost and those still to be lost- all of her kin, her generation sent to a hell of bullets cracking, shells exploding and mud mixed with blood- acres of it like a million football fields with the players churned into the surface.

No glory can be seen in charging forward with your friends and neighbours into a degrading fight to the death with your European cousins, lungs choking on gas, deflated by hot flying piercings.  She wails as she sees and feels this, every casualty scared as the light in their eyes flickers and dies.  Their name added to the list, a mason ready to chip it into white stone.

No future is clear for these youths whose youth is sacrificed for a greater good by the old with their old values: two parallel lines of handshakes turned skeletal, running forward to bash together the skulls of the fleshy.  Many will see youth mourn above them as worms crawl through their body and those left behind gain the emptiness inside that accompanies the death of a loved one.

In an empty landscape youth mourns, her generation struck down by a very human disease.

---

Inspired by the painting Youth Mourning by George Clausen. Also here.

250 Words: The passing of the last dragon

Rotclore lay still in a cave beneath the Himalayas, his last thoughts rolling through his aged mind.  It was long since he last flew or breathed fire and many of his teeth had fallen out, while his famous red claws were now blunt and split.

It was at least a hundred years since he had last seen a fellow dragon and not a lot less since he had taken refuge here under the great mountains of Central Asia.

In his life Rotclore had seen many major events in the history of dragons and of men.  More than a few times he had fought with men and had helped in other ways, too.

Until the time came when magic began to drift from the minds of men and dragons became mistrusted and then hunted with great ferocity.

And thus, burned and with a diamond-tipped arrow in his hide, Rotclore flew east, away from those who had turned against him.  Always he had regretted and wondered if he could have helped the rest of his kind.  But his mother had bid her son, much faster (and weaker) than most, to flee in such a way that Rotclore knew he could not refuse.

And so he flew east with the three eggs hoping to keep them safe, hoping to be joined by another dragon some day, or to find a wizard to hatch them.  But finding only safety, Rotclore had finally come to the end of the line and passed on without fanfare.

250 Words: No need for a favourite

They asked me what my favourite Pixar film was and I refused to answer.  I have had no need for favourites for a while now.  Ever since I stopped watching programmes compiled of lists of things, I guess.  Or maybe before.  I know when I voted for the best music of the last century I found it very difficult to choose something because there is so much I like.  Things are still the same.  I have lots of favourites overall.  Lots of films I really like, lots of bands, lots of books, lots of food.  To able to choose a favourite in any genre or strand or whatever is impossible.  And pointless.  I might have a favourite thing of the moment (Los Campesinos! in music) but “of all time”?  Do me a favour!  Lord, where do you even begin?  How can you even compare?  There are too many differences; and too much baggage attached, even.  Memories and stuff tacked to the side.  Monsters, Inc, for instance, was one of the only times our second year household did something together.  Plus each is partially defined by its accompanying short.  The Incredibles will always be helped a little by Boundin’.   No, no.  I cannae do it.  And I have no need.  I know what I like (virtually everything I come into contact with: so shoot me, I’m a whore!), I know what I don‘t like: why define further?  I’d rather sit happily with everything surrounding me like a million cuddly teddy bears.

250 Words: The 10 hardy souls

We had been flying happily through the Kent countryside on our ways home.  I had been reading Watchmen.  Then everything came to a standstill.  Ice further up the tracks had crippled another and a de-icer train could do nothing.  After standing before a signal for almost an hour we were forced to go backwards to Borough Green & Wrotham.  I took the news as a cue to urinate.  I would be glad I did.

We got to Borough Green at about one and were told buses were on the way.  Some people got lifts, about 100 people were left to wait in the freezing cold.

Before long the taxi companies found out about our plight and began to turn up in their droves picking off people in groups and ferrying them away.  As the night ticked by, more and more gave up and paid up.  10 hardy souls, however, stuck it out.  One rang customer services to find out where we stood.  Advised to take taxis home, our hero pointed out we had no money and even began negotiations to have Southeastern pay for taxis home. 

Eventually the taxis stopped coming and cold took hold of my feet.  So I started to walk about quite a bit.  I started to think that we’d be there until the next train when, at 2:35, a big yellow bus arrived like a flaming torch of hope in a dark cave of despair and the hour and a half journey home to bed began.

250 Words: Three pints of Young’s Special Bitter, my brother (three pints of Foster’s) and a Carling Cup Final defeat (bit late, still topical!*)

Got the call just before two and quickly finished my tea before walking into town, ringing David on arrival. The Ashes was rammed so we looked elsewhere: with Earl’s also packed, we checked the Druid’s and Society Rooms: neither, unsurprisingly, showing the game.  The Albion was shut so we took overheard advice and went to The Old House At Home (quite a strain on the word count, that one) which was full but we got a place to stand and watch. 

The match passed by, interesting but goalless.  The atmosphere inside the pub was heated with chanting from both sets of fans.  Mind you, a lot of our fellow punters looked a bit scary and there seemed a slight air of menace. 

The first explosion was the worst.  A great flash, deafening bang and smoke soon rising from the ground.  At half time a miracle occurred and we got the table we’d been standing by.  I then briefly escaped the heat to get cash, being successful at the second machine, nodding hello to a man from the first. 

The second half drew to a close with extra time to come.  David went to the loo leaving me holding on.  He returned with pints and said something about being threatened.  I went anyway and some of the scary looking people were very courteous on my return. 

The penalties went the wrong way and we left abruptly.  It was a long walk home (made longer by my searching shops for part-baked bread).

---

* At the time of writing

500 Words: Tales from the City: Red mist

I’d always wanted to join the Force.  Ever since I’d had to try and stand bullies down on my own.  I saw those smart guys, in pairs or larger groups, and knew that was where my future lay.  I wound up in training and that’s where it all began. 

I’d always been a weedy little fuck, hence the bullying, and that didn’t change.  I could barely manage the assault courses, couldn’t fire anywhere near accurately.  It seemed I was destined for a desk job.

Until one strange afternoon, for some reason, I closed my eyes before firing on the range- figured I couldn’t get any worse.  Instead something real weird happened.  It was like I became someone else and I put a whole clip through the centre of the target. 

I had to quickly pretend I’d been putting in a lot of secret after-hours practice.  (Some shit about tin cans with my uncle’s pistol, I think).  The same on the assault course.

I couldn’t explain it- every time I closed my eyes I became this kind of super man, every sense becoming more acute, every movement becoming no longer that of a clumsy idiot but that of a lithe athlete or something.  Everything just clicked into place because I could see better with eyes closed. 

Once on the streets all the filth and the grime the city was covered in started to rile me as never before now it was down to me to clean it up.  A few months in, me and my partner came across a gang raping some poor young woman in an alley.  We called to them to stop.  They pulled guns on us.  Quick as a flash I closed my eyes and blew every head away.

Over time similar incidents occurred- once I even entered a building and rescued a hostage with my eyes closed, dodging bullets and taking out several gangsters.  Apparently such skill is considered weird, though, and my partner, then the rest of the Force, started to look at me funny, stopped talking when I entered the room, and looked at me with fear in their eyes. 

And soon I was alone again.  Sort of.  I could always close my eyes and see a field of red that seemed to make more sense or make things easier than in the real world.  I started to walk the streets at night, cleaning-up any mess I came across: drug dealers, gangs, prostitutes and their pimps- even a bent Forceman or two.

And it became addictive, this second life.  I got transferred (due to spreading poor morale) behind a desk during the day and fought crime at night, getting all the power and none of the paperwork.

My life was great.  Until Homicide started sniffing about and I began to see the grime on my own hands, the shit embedded deep under my fingernails.

They interviewed me.  And they knew.

Until the army came to call I didn’t know what I was going to do.

---

Note: I originally tried to make this a two part 250 Words story but failed - I think one half was always going to be too long, the other too short, and it probably works better this way anyway.  Also: I wrote it before I knew anything about Kick-Ass - I can remember being pretty annoyed when I saw the trailer and discovered another Red Mist out there.

250 Words: Dinner guests (one unwanted, one always welcome)

I am the end.

I am sometimes short, sometimes long.

I am sometimes a surprise, sometimes relief.

I am disease, famine, pestilence, war, nature.

I am the worst elements of human nature.

I am grief, despair, mourning, even memory.

I am cold as ice, hot as fire- whatever’s needed.

I am the plunging knife, noose, bullets, bombs.

I am sometimes the end of addiction to alcohol and drugs. 

I am pills, poison, severed veins and throats, leaps into the abyss, asphyxiation.

I am twisted metal, lungs filled with water, crumbling rocks, burning, electricity, suffocation.

I am all means to the end.  I am the cold hand that stills your heart and squeezes out your last breath, I am.

***

I am almost everything.

I am your childhood, metamorphosis, adulthood.

I am your first kiss, exams, bike rides, long walks, days at the seaside, holidays.

I am museums, art galleries, monuments.

I am family meals, family weddings, family funerals.

I am your hobbies, your jobs and career, your spouse, your children, or the lack there of.

I am your dreams, your nightmares, alcohol, drugs.

I am every feeling: every tingling nerve, every hair stood on end, every sound, every sight, every taste, every emotion.

I am love, sex and masturbation.

I am grief, despair, mourning, I am the smells and sounds of memory.

I am the sun, the rain, the earth, every plant, every animal.

I am all things between birth and death, your every joy and even your strife, I am.

250 Words: Vultures circling round the dying

Waiting outside seeing only percentage signs and what they bring; planning their route around the store; eyeing up the competitors.  Telling the press, friends, anyone who will listen how sad the whole thing is.

Swooping in, the smell of warm flesh in the air, the taste of it in their mouths.  Elbows soon become weapons as they scan the shelves and home in on stuff they need, stuff they don’t need, any and all stuff reduced.  Savings feed them, whatever their background.  Savings satiate the desire to amass stuff.

China smashes, people fall, baskets fill, voices rise, wallets empty, tills ring hollow as life is extracted, the coffin already made.

And the helpless staff watch on, knots tightening around their hearts as the days pass, each home time potentially the last.  Their feet aching, ears ringing: all that you would expect at Christmas. But not like this, not this way, please, they plead while being dragged around by vultures demanding insider knowledge, asking what’s left, picking with their beaks and claws at the carcass that was these people’s jobs.

And outside I wait, wondering if the prices will drop below 50% their original (plus VAT alterations), wondering what I will be able to get from the music, toys and sweets.  And if they do the thermal mug (leather bound) I need to find.

Waiting in the queue I talk with a person about how sad it all is, smiling inwardly at the savings I will make, my feathers quivering excitedly.

250 Words: The story of Stac Levenish

Levenish was a nuisance in the Ancient Glasgow area, forever rubbing people up the wrong way and getting drunk and shouting and knocking down fences to let animals go.  The chaos of early mornings was bad enough to bare.  It became even worse when the young and impressionable started to gather round and join in.  Before long the gang were taking all they wanted and terrorising villages along the River Clyde.

One night the rogues discovered the hut of a trusting wizard and Levenish, trying to prove what a man he was, consumed a draught labelled Strength.  Soon he was a stone giant, all the better to bully the populace.

On returning to his hut from a gathering expedition in the Highlands, Kilda was shocked to discover what had resulted from his carelessness and, after a quick discussion with his Helfenschwein, Soay, realised what must be done, no matter the consequences for themselves.  And so they brewed more of the stolen potion, each downed a portion and went searching for Levenish.

Together the pair overcame the brute and dragged Levenish up the Clyde and out to sea as deep and as far as they could manage.  Some distance beyond Barra, Kilda and Soay became exhausted and collapsed where they stood becoming new islands rooted in the ocean, binding Levenish also as they became one with Mother Earth.  Levenish, enraged at what had happened blew forth red hot lava from his head until he himself grew tired and fell fast asleep.

250 Words: Improv, aka Ramblings 3

It was a parrot called Malcolm that finally pushed me over the edge.  Always squawking on about fucking crackers or some such shit.  So I never went to the pet shop again.  Shame, really,because I had always enjoyed a visit there.  I went to a party once, though, and saw Malcolm again.  His repertoire had changed a bit by then and he won me over.  Charming fellow, I must say. Knew the first lines of fifteen classic novels.  If you said the title, he would give you said first line. Fun game to try and find the ones he knew.  I can remember he knew A Christmas Carol (not read it, but knew the first sentence: easy to remember at three words long) and Pride and Prejudice (who doesn’t know that one?)  I don’t think I know any others, actually, so if he was right I wouldn’t have known.  Funny old bird, that.  Not as strange as the parrots who live wild in this country. Weirder for them, perhaps.  Or maybe not if they were born and bred in captivity. Malcolm was cool, though.  Like to see him again.  Anyway, I went back to the pet shop but the latest parrot was a shit too.  I’ve not been back since.  Shame, really, because I always enjoyed a visit there.  I liked the little hamsters with their big cheeks and the rabbit babies and the guinea pigs. And the different size water bottles.  And the fish: could watch them forever.

250 Words: Couple No 7: Tales from the City: The Blur and The Developer (Part Five)

The two had clandestine meetings at many different places, including each other’s apartments, as Thomas fully explained to Peter how he made his ability work and slowly related his life story (minus the bully incident and other pieces of information that might help give his identity away) to be published as a serial.

And an element of calm soon came over the city in relation to Thomas, aka The Blur: the naysayers faded into the background and the city came to terms with their unlikely hero who had come from a small town in the middle of nowhere and who was here to stay.

Thomas and Peter quickly became friends, getting closer and closer during meetings that would turn into all-night chats ending on the balcony watching the sun come up.  Until one glorious summer evening when, in a pause, their eyes met, the silence was filled with a kiss and they finally gave in to their inner urges and became a couple. 

And thus they went on, partners in two different senses and with a foreboding feeling in the back of their minds.  Thomas knew that if the relationship ended badly, Peter could expose him quite naked to the city while Peter worried that their closeness could lead to exposure- it might not take much investigation by jealous rivals to discover their secret and blow the deal with his editor. 

And thus it went on, The Blur and The Developer happy; but scared of happiness’s end.

To be continued…?

250 Words: Couple No 7: Tales from the City: The Blur and The Developer (Part Four)

They met in a bar, somewhere neither thought it would happen, each going there to escape their problems.  But as Thomas waited to buy a round, Peter whispered in his ear, “I know who you are, Blur.”  Abandoning his friends, who gave him a wink and a nudge, Thomas spoke with Peter in a secluded corner.

Peter tried to get Thomas to come out, give him the scoop.  Thomas explained why he could not, what he feared would happen.  Peter said he would write what Thomas wanted, could explain his powers thoroughly, define what could not otherwise be defined.  Thomas said he wanted to remain anonymous, though, deep down, he knew he’d lost, that Peter would run the story no matter what, and that, perhaps, his story had to come out now so he could help people again. 

However Peter had, through talking to Thomas, begun to sympathise a little.  Partly because he could see the advantage of having Thomas as a friend and keeping his identity secret.  Plus it would mean Thomas might become active again, so he’d be doing the city a favour.  If his identity became known, Thomas may be forced into stopping permanently or moving away. 

And so they formed an alliance- Thomas giving Peter information on his powers and his deeds, Peter producing exclusives and keeping his own power, which his editor wasn’t pleased with but accepted the arrangement: he had, after all, the only column in the city about The Blur.  Sales rose steeply.

250 Words: Couple No 7: Tales from the City: The Blur and The Developer (Part Three)

Thomas froze when he saw the headline (“Our Man Sees The Blur”) and his stomach lurched when he read the article and its debate over whether The Blur could move superhumanly fast or if he moved within frozen time.  Partly because he knew he’d been seen but also because he’d always wanted the name Chrono Man or Time Freeze.  The blurring was a hindrance and not something he wanted to be known for.

Growing up, Thomas had dreamed of fame, of showing off his powers on television, meetings with scientists and politicians; and also of celebrity dates.  Instead, not long after the city had begun to chatter about his exploits, he had met with resentment over his inability to save everyone.  The people’s ignorance of the exact nature of his powers led them to question and a hatred grew among many.

Simultaneously, the newspapers, in their fear of not knowing (and their rivalry), had begun their manhunt- thinking only of their own needs and not of what harm they might do to their supposed hero.  Commentators from all quarters threw in their thoughts as Thomas himself wondered whether to reveal his identity.

In the end Thomas, with his supporters and detractors in a frenzy, decided to stop his activities for a while and lay low so as to avoid this blur-seeing journalist.  Something he did not manage for long, not realising that Peter knew his face.  Or that the two had something in common that would make their worlds overlap.

250 Words: Couple No 7: Tales from the City: The Blur and The Developer (Part Two)

Peter was a reporter for one of the city’s newspapers and was constantly vigilant for whoever or whatever was causing the miracles to occur.  Most newspapers didn’t believe in the divine and were constantly searching for a rational explanation.

During his career Peter had always had a keen eye for events as they unfolded, as well as a good memory for later distilling events into stories.  In fact his vision and memory were so perfect, it was if he saw and remembered events step by step like photographs developed and stored forever in his mind.

One day Peter was walking through the city’s streets and, as he often did, used his analytical skills to people watch, taking in movements and expressions as entertainment to fill the time on the way to a job.

All of a sudden he heard tyres squeal and a woman scream and, looking in the direction from the sounds had come from, he saw a streaked line starting and ending from a man on the opposite pavement and running across the road, engulfing and picking up the child, dropping it off next to its mother and then circling back around over the road to the start point.

In his excitement, Peter neglected to follow this extraordinary man.  Leaving him instead with a story he could only really put across as a theory, a belief.  The search would therefore have to continued: except that now Peter knew the face he needed to find to complete the scoop.

250 Words: Couple No 7: Tales from the City: The Blur and The Developer (Part One)

Thomas first realised he could stop time during a stressful moment.  The School Bully had him cornered and as the punch came in, Thomas closed his eyes and braced himself.  On opening them he found time had stopped.  After a short panic stood stock, still worried the world had come to an end, Thomas decided to piss up and down the Bully’s legs before returning to his original position (instinctively he knew he would have to always do so), unfroze time and witnessed the end of the School Bully’s reign.

Some time later Thomas began his secret life of helping others out (after a prolonged period of mischief, of course).  Though he had to always start and end in the same place, he could still change other things in the blink of everyone else’s eye, removing victims or criminals from various situations and so on.

The only problem was the care he needed to take in his movement.  Appearing in more than one position in a single moment meant Thomas left a great streak behind him.  In the early days he often got lost, finding it difficult to return to his start position.  Over time Thomas learned to take care, freezing time before taking in the full situation and planning every move- normally in a clockwise direction.

Eventually he grew up and moved to the city where his antics, occurring almost on a daily basis, became its greatest mystery and a search for the solution to this enigma soon began.

250 Words: Getting my mobile back

The first sign it had been found came on Sunday morning when my mother said someone had rung the night before and that “the number sounded like” mine.  Hope set in and not too long later the finder rang and asked how I wanted to organise things.  I asked where he lived (somewhere near the cinema), he suggested meeting at the newsagents nearby.

I got a lift into town and waited on a bench.  Felt a little like Lisa Liskli, actually, but waiting for a man to return property rather than for a date, as each time a new man came in sight, I wondered if they were the one.  He was a nice looking chap (hooded, bright yellow top and those horrible circular earrings that create a massive hole in your earlobes) who became our hero. 

Earlier, I’d been thinking about the question of a reward.  Chocolate or money were my two thoughts.  But overriding this was the belief that he could have just handed it in at the cinema and saved himself the bother.  So I more or less decided not to bother.  Kind of ended up almost feeling bad about this after asking if he had indeed found the device in das kino.  Turned out he hadn’t.  Rather, he’d trodden on the damned thing in Hart Street. 

Still, I don’t think he cared about it one way or another.  He certainly just seemed like a nice guy who wanted to get a phone back to its owner.  

250 Words: Week off

Annoyingly I had several ideas (well, two for three weeks) but not enough time to work on them properly.  One is born of Heroes- an idea dreamed up just before the new series*; and one that overlaps with it slightly- at least I thought, “Balls,” during Episode 1; rightly or wrongly.  The other comes from a painting I saw last Tuesday, though the theme goes back further.

And so it’s a verified week off.  Naught but the story of a lamb lost on a heath.  Through a gap in the fence caused by naughty children it crept, off to find its way it went.

Soon, however, a mist came down and the lamb got wet and shivery and knew not where to go or what to do.  And the lamb wandered, hearing howls and hoots as the night wore on and it began to miss the stable and its warm hay.

“Sometimes it’s better not to take the chances offered to us, I guess,” the lamb decided while settling into a divot in the ground for the night.  “Some thought, some advice may be required.”

After a quick dream of home, a friendly badger came and guided the lamb back to the farm and a tearful reunion with its family.  Never again would the lamb stray beyond the borders set in place.

Then either:

a) it was slaughtered for eating soon after

or

b) it grew up to live a long and productive life.

You choose.  It’s my week off.

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*I wrote these things years ago; Couple No 7 is, I think, the what I'm referring to here.  Not sure what the painting was.

250 Words: Couple No 6: After The Fight

"come up to meet you/tell you I'm sorry"

My head still throbs: continually turning it over doesn’t help.  I want to move on, find us the next ladder.  So I call you; then wash, shave, style my hair and dress like it’s our first date.

And I come to meet you, rehearsing my speech all the way: every word thought out with intense concentration on my face: bewildering some while others seem to understand.

As I get near the top of the hill you appear from the other side.  We walk toward each other and stop, standing awkwardly outside the old house, unsure how to begin.

My speech disappears when I see your face, your beautiful face: tired and worn, your hair tied back, not a single muscle in your face active: like you’re frozen in time or lost in an emotional wilderness: your face like nature trampled by wheels, beaten about, bruised, leaving a stain of concern behind.  My stomach drops at what I have done but something in your eyes speaks of hope.

We smile weakly and draw closer.  Our reflective eyes meet, we apologise, make promises. As we do I take your clothes in my fists, my grip like a baby's; the material, as ever, is strange, exotic, comforting; reminding me that I need you.  Then, slowly, we embrace, kiss unsteadily, teeth scraping, as if for the first time.  And as we exit the scene, still shells of our former selves, it is a step in the right direction: the first part of our healing.

250 Words: Couple No 5: A stumbling block to romance

Argh, Annie, he promised so much.  For ages he was always chatting to me at whatever pub or party we were at, slowly convincing me we should date, that we’d be good together.  He tried so hard, Annie, put in so much effort.  And he was so sweet, I believed every word that came from his rotten lying mouth.

He continued his beautiful charm offensive on our dates.  In restaurants, parks and, once, on the beach with a bag of chips at sunset: an amazing evening huddled closely on the pebbles.  Jesus, Annie, he was wonderful every step of the way.  Whispered phone calls at bedtime, sandwiches on grass at lunchtime, he even carried my books to class, the clichéd mother’.

And that first time was magical- can’t believe I gave it up to him, now; the signs were there, I swear- it was such a fantastic day together in town, a tingle of anticipation building slowly between us through the day and evening then being released long into the night.  The memory’s tarnished now but at the time it was amazing- coming together like that with someone for the first time.  And waking up together for the first time.  Brilliant.

Guess you reap what you sew and I let that syphilitic swine plough God knows what into me.  And him so marvellous throughout while screwing Holly on the side, no doubt laughing at me whenever we parted, on his way to that skank’s bed.

Fucking hell, Annie, why me?  

250 Words: Couple No 4: Burke and Hare

It started, innocently enough, with a proposal (though any innocence that could conceivably have existed had already been drowned in thought and would soon be drowned in deed as well): “It is simple, Bill- a matter of supply and demand.  And a demand only the cunning, the devious, can supply.  And that, Bill: those curious and devious suppliers, can be us!  The only rogues in the city daring enough to make the demands of medicine, and of science, into an honest day’s work.”

And that is how the grizzly business began.  Doctors in need of bodies were supplied with the means to the advancement of knowledge by the two men happy to supply them for cash, the last gasps of air becoming akin to the cash register‘s merry ring.

Every man or woman killed and transported in secret kept the pair solvent and able to continue. However, the illegality of murder was the couple’s only problem, the only sticking point in the plan.  And twas the very reason the police of Edinburgh were to ultimately follow their bloody trail to an ultimate conclusion and the present scene:

A couple who’ve shamed Scotland.  A couple brought together in crime before a crowd eager to see death come to those who bring about death themselves: the justice of the courts that will deliver them to Lucifer himself.  A couple about to dance a gruesome jig that will shake everything out of their bodies from their basest substances to their very lives themselves.

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NB: When writing this I had every intention of actually researching Burke and Hare.  In the end, however, I wrote this before looking into them, I'm not sure why (probably just "for a laugh"). See if you can spot the glaring error here (if you didn't already spot it, that is).

250 Words: Couple No 3: Lover’s Pact

In a darkened room a couple move past sweet nothings and think about their future.  They talk about moving in together- an idea that makes sense given the amount of time they spend together.  This topic soon leads to the thought of commitment: something so far largely untouched between them, though with others they have mentioned long term.

And soon they reach the nub of it.

Their love holds few conditions and these they outline in a lover’s pact that will bind them together.  A script to stick to or use spontaneously to breed romance.  Personal vows requiring not witnesses or law.  A secret between them, a counsel to keep.

All I want from you is to keep me; keep me in that special box by your bed.

I will keep you; I will keep you in my heart and in my head.

Hold me; take me out every night and hold me tight.

I promise to hold you; through the good times and the bad.

Love me; kiss me whenever we meet, never let us die.

I shall always love you; water you with love, never let us die.

Heal me; lick my wounds, patch me up.

I will heal you; nurse you and revive you.

Warm me; lay your head on my chest, put your arms around me.

I’ll warm you; put my arms around you, always keep you close.

If they do these things every favour will be returned.  With this lover’s pact they seal their love.

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.