Water

Task was to write about water, thought I’d write about a hydrological cycle, but without using the word water. (re-edited 12/12/12)

Gentle wisps of white puff glide slowly across the sea blue horizon, morphing from wisp to spectre, vanishing then re-forming higher into a soft grey swelling form.  One gentle grey mound is unresistingly attracted to its neighbour and almost imperceptibly they stretch, glide and join,  melding into a darker grey.  This larger form begins to attract other passing grey wisps, and drawing in nearby puffs it ominously increases in size.  It darkens and becomes a broody mass gathering in all around and growing rapidly.  It has quickly become a burgeoning charcoal-dark lump and by an unseen alchemy it rises larger and dirtier, now grabbing and drawing in every spectral wisp and pillow in sight.  Its appetite is insatiable and it expands by the second becoming angry with its size.  The threatening mass is heard to moan as it lifts an enormous head heavenward in puffs and billows so high it captures and holds all warmth and light from above, trapping it within and casting a pall of gloom over the surface below.  It grumbles as the pain of the light flashes in its belly, clawing and arcing, trying to tear a way out. The churning hurricane wantonly grips the heat and light inside it’s demonic digestion .  A cataclysm grinds and builds, it groans and creaks expanding its girth to unimaginable enormity.  A victim of its own physics, demanding more growth, it rolls uncontrolled towards a smaller maelstrom, overwhelming and consuming with a deafening crash and belch.  It becomes a gargantuan agitating weight and hunkers downwards, pressing a wedge of air heavily onto the surface of the ocean.  Bleak and ominous it compresses the waves and holds this expanse of the world to task.

A solar flare slashes through the ionosphere to pock and prick at the billowing carapace.  The whirlpool churnings are tormented, the captured energy spiked and  excited can be held no more.  A massive gash of lightening rents a gaping tear, flashing destruction earthward and exploding within.  Wounded, it writhes and squirms, flayed and agonised it bleeds its viscera in a torrent to the sea. 

The ocean is pelted with jagged ice and a rain so intense it shatters the surface to a mist of impact.  The bombardment chills and shrinks the air and the leaden cloud falls closer to the surface.  Warm air from behind is sucked between sea and storm in a rush that skates the entity forward, pushing it towards land a hundred miles ahead.  The supercharged behemoth draws more turbulence from the warmth and magnifies its deluge and lightening.

The cloud has become a demonic engine of destruction, boiling and churning faster and faster, intensifying as it perpetuates momentum.   The shoreline is scared by the approach, a wall of ocean is being pushed towards it and fire and torture can be seen in the rolling mess rumbling above a massive wave.  There is no escape, no remedy, the beach and headlands surrender to the rushing tide.  A cruel shrapnel of spiked ice and sheets of flood are poured mercilessly on the land as, forced to rise, the angered storm heartlessly sheds its load to clamber, drag and smash itself into the coastal hills and cliffs.  Smashing, tripping, dumping and avalanching down, the flood carves  up coastal fields and rips at inland forests.

Streams and gullies are drowned in the deluge and living creatures struggle to find purchase or breath.  A wall of debris is torn from the land and flung, scraped and scoured over swathes of earth never before inundated.  The drowning flow races up valleys ,filling voids and consuming the landscape with turbulent writhings.

Like a rolling ball of lightening and destruction the storm front illuminates and rips a fiery path of apocalypse, slowly purging  the tempest of it’s weight. 

Gradually, in time, its load is released, it relaxes, its fires spent, its thickness diminished and it slowly lifts higher and expands, lighter, wider  and leaving a devastated land.  A brightness seeps through the softer grey, shining the sodden lands.  A sigh of sunlight slices through the centre of the cloud and the grey dissolves.
There are more breaks, the monster dissipates, pillows and gentle wisps break off and in the blue sky they thin out and waste into a rolling calm cloudscape that beautifies the terrain.  A gleam of silver reflects clear blue sky off the surface of a new wide lake.. 
From a sheltered ledge up high on a lee-side hill a life-form emerges to scramble down the stripped earth towards this trapped expanse of flood.   Reaching the lake and glancing around the creature rests on a tumbled boulder jutting from the edge.  It bends towards a clearing pool and lowers its head to drink deeply, warmed comfortingly by the sun on its back. 
To the east, gentle wisps of white puff glide slowly across the sea-blue horizon, morphing from wisp to spectre, vanishing, then re-forming …      

The heart attacks

 The task was to write a piece in about 250 words that an artist could sketch. 

Afternoon sun streaks coolly through spartan branches and falls onto gold and tan wind-tossed leaves. 

Martin sits in his sweaty jogging gear resting his back against the old grit bin and moving his arms and head to ward off the cramp.  The gravel path at his feet follows the course of an abandoned rail line, now a popular cycle and walkway.  Its deep cuttings and arced route are softened by trees, brambles and grasses fighting for life along its course.    Martin’s gaze is drawn back towards the train-sized mouth of the old stone bridge.  Sunlight glints off its moist façade and casts a deep shadow under its arch.  The heads and shoulders of a few cows plod over its arched crest and he guesses their movement was what drew his attention.  He relaxes and momentarily forgets his breathlessness as he observes their calm passage.

The last cow stops briefly in the middle of the bridge to peer over the edge and Martin’s gaze falls to notice a silvered figure standing under the arch, shielded in the deep shade.  A trick of light highlights long hair and her silken dress clings and drifts in a breeze that Martin can not feel from where he sits.  The girl is beautiful, alluring, the dress totally inappropriate for the cool day, and while she is illuminated in the shade of the bridge her brightness is not from the sun.  Beguiled, Martin rises and makes his way towards her entreaty, she opens her arms, an irresistible appeal to his well worn spirit.

~~~~~~~~~

(Then I found a photo of a cow on a sunny day on a bridge and changed the rail way to a canal and the season to early spring)

The early springtime sun streaks coolly through newly green branches and falls onto grasses and budding wildflowers.

Martin sits slumped in his sweaty running kit resting his back against the splintered old lock gate while moving his arms and head to relieve the cramp.  His favourite jogging route follows the course of a redundant tow path, now a popular cycle and walkway.  Its deep cuttings and banked route are softened by trees, brambles and grasses all growing lushly along its course.    Martin’s gaze is caught and drawn towards the wide mouth of the old stone bridge nearby.  Sunlight glints off its key-stoned façade and contrasts the deep shadows under the arch.  The heads and shoulders of a few cows plod over its crest of the bridge and he guesses their movement was what drew his attention.  He relaxes and momentarily forgets his breathlessness as he observes their calm passage.

The last cow stops briefly just past the middle to peer over the edge and Martin’s gaze falls to notice a silvered figure standing under the arch, shielded in the deep shade.  A beam of light highlights long hair and her silken dress clings and drifts in a breeze that Martin can not feel from where he sits.  The girl is beautiful, alluring, the gossamer cloth totally inappropriate for the cool day, she is enticingly illuminated but her brightness is not from the sun.  Beguiled, Martin rises and makes his way over, obeying her entreaty.  She opens her arms, an irresistible appeal to his well worn spirit.

Love Hurts

Love Hurts, was the Halloween task for the October 31 Savages meet.   As a born again atheist I don't do Halloween, goblins or any of that afterlife zombie/spectre stuff so I had no idea what to write for a Halloween theme love hurts.  I heard when you don't know what to write just start writing and see what happens, this happened.

The edge of the gravel road was getting picked out dully, the old headlights just showing where the grader had sloughed the loose dirt onto one side. Ray was driving confidently on the newly smoothed surface, revelling in a rapid journey over what is usually a corrugated slow back track to the farm.  Dust powdered up from the wheels and glowed red in the rear view mirror as he touched the brakes. A dry cloud of it puffed into the driver’s window as he took the corner with the smallest bit of controlled over-steer.

A rare smile creased his face and he dropped back a gear to keep the tail out a little longer.  Sideways now he held the slide until he could power out, down and towards the creek, his right foot hovering over the brake as he lifted off the throttle, engine-braking the car and straightening it up to take the greasy surface of the stream-bed at speed.   A reflex grab at the dash-mounted switch sent the wipers arcing over the dry screen a moment before the spray of icy water obliterated all vision momentarily.  Shit!  That was deeper than he’d thought.  The next sweep of the blade cleared the screen in stripes, just enough for Ray to judge the exit and shoot up back onto the road for a left turn.  A foot-full of acceleration spun the rear wheels up the slope and planted the car into the camber of the corner before a couple of hiccups from the engine yelled water in the carburettor.  Ray held the clutch and floored the engine, clearing the water and he dropped her back into gear.  Nothing.  The loss of power ploughed the car’s weight onto the front wheels and she turned into the corner harder than Ray wanted.  Flicking the steering back he forced the Cortina’s momentum to over-steer and broadsided the old girl into a dust cloud of blindness.  Ray hit the brakes to stop rolling down the embankment and coughed in a defeated breath.    The cabin was thick with dust and the engine drowned.  Two yellow beams from the headlights coned into the dust.  Served him right he thought, more testosterone than talent.  Who was he kidding, should know better.  Just as well Maree wasn’t watching, he could hear her now , saying what a fool he was, scaring her like that.  She never tried to understand his love of rally driving and he always relished the rare times when he could get in the old Lotus and go for a bit of a thrash. 

There had been a lot more chances to do that lately and every now and then he did get the old feeling back, the pump of adrenalin, the buzz from clipping an apex in a perfect sweep.  He even enjoyed fixing the faults that came from plugging a forty-something year old veteran along at a silly rate.  As the dust began to settle he unclipped his harness, opened the door and reached back to slide the torch and tool kit from their slots in the floor.  This won’t take long hopefully, just drain the carbs, take off the air filters and limp slowly home.  

The calm drive back would be like taking the Peugeot into town, slowly, cautiously, while Maree sung along to the radio or chatted about things he never listened to.  Sure enough though, as he opened the engine bay, steam billowed out and dirty water dripped from everything.  Ray propped the torch and set about removing the familiar pieces and draining some fuel.  Back in the driver’s seat a few churns of the starter and she fired back up, a couple of blips on the accelerator, she’s running fine, close the bonnet, and slowly crawl the last mile home.   The farm entrance lined by the white painted horse fence and the red gravel driveway had all lost their charm a year ago and as the house came into view he could see the lights he had left on in the kitchen and garage were still burning.   The bedroom and Maree’s office window were black voids in the white front wall.  Maree wasn’t working in the office tonight.  He pulled into the garage and killed the ignition.  Ray sat listening to the engine as it ticked cool from it’s workout.  It was the only sound he could hear, Maree wasn’t watching the TV or listening to the stereo as she ironed.  It was after eight thirty and the Channel Five movie would be starting soon but Ray chose to fix the engine first, dry off its polished surfaces and replace the air filters before dropping the bonnet closed and walking back to shut the garage door.  He didn’t really enjoy watching the TV movies.  As he reached up to close the double garage he glanced over at the covered Peugeot and noticed it’s tyres had gone flat.   

The kitchen sink held the few plates of today’s two meals and Ray opened the fridge to drag out the last of the soup.  Maree’s love flowed out from the warming pan as Ray heated the chunky liquid, it’s recipe his favourite of all her winter meals.  The soup and couple of chunks of bread dropped onto the aga’s plate to warm would be all he could face tonight. 

A fitting anniversary tribute though he thought. 

As he stirred the pot his mind went to what the coming year would hold.   It was a year on, and neither Maree or their unborn daughter would be sharing soup or watching the TV under the blanket in front of the fire. 

Ray would again see the Channel 5 movie, not remember it, and at it’s end he would wash up the dishes and go to sleep in a cold bed to start another 4 am morning on the farm.  At least the cows would always be there for him. 

savage intro

For this Website’s frontispiece I have been asked to write about how I write.
The short answer is ‘I dunno’, but I presume this will not suffice.
I am an analogue child, born in the middle of the last century when telephones were wired to the wall, radios were furniture and writing was done with a pen at home and with a typewriter and carbon paper at work. Back then, in school, we had a class called ‘composition’ which I liked much more than ‘sums’. My teacher asked her young class to write a report composition about our long weekend. My story was marked as a Fail and I cried. My teacher kindly explained she had asked for a report not a fantasy composition. My mother upon seeing my distress went in to the school and informed my teacher that we did live between a Bull family and a Horn family, their kids did look like I described, I had steered the tractor on a farm and I did shoot at rats that weekend. So I got re-marked to an A. Sort of like the current GCSE debate, but the confusion I had caused suppressed any budding desire for creative expression I may have harboured.
I left schooling early, took many jobs and ended up writing legal, admin and marketing stuff for Australia, Japan and the USA. I became a corporate manager and soon realised as I saw folk working away, that people everywhere doubt themselves. Many took on beliefs in invisible friends they trusted to solve their problems and set their rules. I had read some of the story books they said were true, I had also read many other story books. I had fantasy stories read to me as a child. I liked the stories but I didn’t believe any of them.
So I decided that as so much was wrong with the idea of invisible friends and so many wars and troubles caused by these invisible friend’s stories I’d best write my own story, aimed at people who needed invisible friends, or who doubted themselves, who lacked bravery. I sat and typed (on a computer) for an hour or more a day, sometimes much more, passionately producing tens of thousands of words of what, in review, is overwritten, sanctimonious bull. I loved it. I also wrote a long adventure story with a hero, sex, guns and everything. I loved that too. It was trite, flowery and unbelievable. I sometimes re-visit the first and re-write bits as I know there is great portent within the bull. But I am no longer passionate. I erased the failed adventure. I didn’t cry.
Then I discovered that there were some people, many people who liked to write just because they could. People who wanted to improve, to hear writing read out. People who perhaps dreamed of being published and famous or just being published. People who loved writing and secretly hoped they’d get discovered. People like me. One such group was this Leeds Savages and they introduced me to things called flash fiction and short story and five minute tasks and dialogue writing and humorous horror and 1000 word limits and, to be fair, another avenue for a social drink or three.
Oh yeah. So. How do I write? I continue to work in the world for fee and free, writing and communicating internationally, blogging and reviewing as required. Then, once a fortnight, I have the opportunity to sit and concentrate on a short Savage piece, about 1000 words, a scene, a character, a story, climax and conclusion. The task usually sits for an hour or a week, there’s no telling, in the mind, idling away being a small bother until my brain links an idea to the task. Inspiration! Delight! Consternation about how to capture the idea crisply. About half an hour bashing on the keyboard (I still hunt and pick two fingered) and the story sort of falls out, quicker the more often I do it. I have been doing it for a couple of years now. Every time I love my story. Every time it is great or crap. Doesn’t matter. I am hooked, can’t imagine a time when I won’t want to write a piece to a task. I even enter short story competitions, some I get recognition some I don’t. Anyway after I write a piece I leave it to sit. A day, a week, an hour, then I re-read it and change the bits that were fantastic, then change other bits, and then leave it. I return and re-do the whole review again. Then I leave it and read it out on the next meeting, or get someone else to read it. It sounds so different. I take it home and change it. Sometimes though I get a task, I write it, I shuck it down to 1000 words and I leave it.
That’s how I write, some good, some crap. The more I read and listen to others the better I write, I think.
The shorter muse is the one that is swift to be satiated, a rewarding, enjoyable and fulfilling muse, an enticer, a seducer, a lovely welcome thing.
The novel, the book, the novella, the magnum opus, they are the muse of demand, a harsher mistress, a bench of flagellation and a task wearying for me. But. Let me say. About the shorter muse, well, …consider a novel, a book, the novella, the magnum opus, … they are but a collection of the shorter muse, arranged, linked, and caressed into form. I think I’ll go off now and have another look at my Stranger Philosophies manuscript.

Who dunn it

The task for September was to write anything on the topic of Whodunnit.

WHODUNNIT?  Sissy did it!

You know what it feels like.  When you spot something from the corner of your eye but it doesn’t quite register enough to make you stop whatever it is you are doing.  What you do get though, is a shadow of a feeling about something, something that you feel is not right.  Sometimes it makes you look back at what you spotted, but mostly you continue on and there's just a weird feeling of something, something important, that lingers and iritates.  Sort of a spooky unease.

That was exactly the feeling Karen had as she parked the car in the driveway of their home tonight.  She put the sensation down as the feeling she had been getting ever since Frank had sprung Sissy from her confinement and allowed her to stay with them. 

“She’s part of our family,” he had said that first night after Sissy had  gone to bed in the spare room.  Later, on their way upstairs to get ready for bed Frank had added “Regardless of what she may or may not have done in the past, its our job now to show we trust her,  to show her how she can change, you know, we just be who we are, she can use us an example of civilised behaviour.”

“But Frank, you have to admit it, no-one's ever said she wasn’t guilty, they just couldn’t prove the case.  I want you to kick her out, sooner the better, let her go her own way.  She ‘s made her own life, let her live with it.  I don’t see why we have to provide for her”

“Oh, leave it out Karen, you are the only one who thinks she could have done anything.  I mean really, does she act like a killer?”

“What!?  How can you tell?”  “Know lots of murderers, do you?”  

From there the discussion descended into the usual bitter jibes and picking until Frank once again stormed out of the bedroom to sleep on the couch.  That night though it was not just a sulk, as Karen tossed angrily in bed she heard him chatting away happily downstairs.  He could only be talking with Sissy as Karen had made certain that both Jenny and Bruce were sound asleep and warm under their covers hours ago.  Listening to Frank talk for what seemed like hours, Karen finally relented and, in an act of contrived 'civilised behaviour' , went downstairs to join them.  After that night talking with Frank and Sissy her anger subsided and Karen begrudgingly agreed to allow Sissy to stay for a while, sort of, at least until she could think of a subtle way to get her to move on.  

The feeling tonight as she aproached her front door was a bit different to the usual unease she felt at having to deal with Sissy again.  As Karen walked towards the front of the house she realised Sissy was not around.  It was an ingratiating trait Sissy had of listening for the car arriving onto the gravel of the driveway and then making a point of being around as Karen came in.  It always made Karen feel like she was visiting someone rather than coming back to her own home.

Tonight, as she entered the foyer the feeling was very strange.  “You there, Sissy?” Karen called out, hanging her coat on the rail and dropping her handbag on the chair.   That strange feeling got stronger as she realised she couldn’t hear the radio on or Jenny or Bruce playing in the front room, the whole house was silent. “Hullo? Anyone?” Karen called out louder as she made her way into the hallway. Then she realised the front room was in darkness.  That was what she had, but hadn't noticed as she'd pulled up in the car.  The standard lamp was on a timer and always came on so Jenny and Bruce could play through the dusk until she got home.

She reached for the switch to  turn on the centre light.  The halogen bulbs flooded a chaotic scene of destruction with a searing white light. Jenny and Bruce lay bloodied and still on the floor, the vase of lilies Karen had arranged so carefully this morning had fallen and smashed on the floor beneath its place on the windowsill.  The standard lamp rested on the edge of the coffee table, its bulb smashed and frosted glass scattered in a parabola from it’s point of impact.  Karen took it all in and collapsed onto her knees, part crawling across the floor to reach gently for the limp bodies of Jenny and Bruce. Their small sweet bodies were as cold as ice, eyes staring lifeless in fright from what they had been put through.  A scream tore from Karen’s chest and she buried her head between the two corpses.

“What the?” Frank yelled as he rushed in from the front door.  “oh my god….  Karen, Karen, are you alright?  H..How are they?” 

“They are fucking dead you moron……. Your Bloody cat has killed again see?  I told you she would,  my lovebirds,  My beautiful birds. My beautiful sweet, chatty, playful birds. Your feral murderer has killed them and fuckin-well destroyed the house to do it!”  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DEATH SENTENCES

The task was to write a script of about 1000 words.  I never wrote a script before but I liked doing this one, then erased it in error, so I thank Matt Hooper for finding a copy in his endless email files and sending it back.  It is like finding a lost pet...   It is locked in the blog and can't escape now.

DEATH SENTENCES

The scene:  

·         7:30 am in the after-party open plan kitchen of a Headingley flat.

·         The room is in dismal disarray and the remnant stale stench of a boozed up crowd lingers.

·         Phil leans with both hands on the edge of the crammed sink, The hot tap is running into an overflowing kettle jammed under it. He stares out blankly at the littered back yard.

A toilet flushes, bathroom door opens, Karl enters:

KARL:   Hey, that was some farewell bash huh?. …..Hey, Phil,! ...Snap-to it mate, kettle’s not getting any fuller.

PHIL: Wha..? yeah,,,,, Oh shit. … Wanna a cup?

KARL: As you asked, sure. You got a cup?

PHIL: Uh, think so, top cupboard.

KARL:  Back yard’s a fuckin waste-land isn’t it? Suppose we will have to sort it, in here too, the whole place is trashed. Who’s the girl on the sofa?

PHIL: The sofa? Dunno. Ask her.

KARL: She’s not up for conversation, tripped over her as I walked past, didn’t wake her. I moved her legs back onto the cushions, never stirred. She’s no-one I know.

PHIL: Get a cup out for her then, we’ll have to get her going before we head off..

KARL: Shit!...Its Monday…. I gotta stop joinin’ in your weekend blow-outs, thank god you’re leaving that place.

PHIL: Yeah, probably best for all. Pass that milk will you…..(sniff) . Wonder if she takes sugar, she’ll need it huh? Go over, wake her up, I’ll bring the tea.

KARL: Hey, you,(shake), wakey wake. Blimey, she can sleep. HEY ! (face-slapping) WAKE-UP!

PHIL: Jeezus! Don’t slap her, for shit sake. You got no fuckin class? Oh Christ! It’s bloody Jenny.

KARL: Jenny who?

PHIL: Jenny….Jenny fuckin Wiles,,, the bitch, she’s been sabotaging me at work for months , I reckon that's what got me on the redundancy list.  What is she doing here? Bloody hell… she’s a mess… What’d she get into last night?

KARL: Dunno but she’s only just breathing.  Man! .. She’s wasted Phil… Here, help me sit her up.

PHIL: Bugger it, clear a space where I can put these teas down….. Right. Let’s be having a look at you then girly,,, Uuuuppp we go….

KARL: She’s as white as a ghost Phil,

PHIL: Bloody cold too.  Shit ... I think we have a problem here….

KARL: You think!? Try and get her to drink something, how hot’s that tea?

PHIL: it’s fine. Hey Jenny, here you go, open your lips, here is some tea for you…….. Shit, Karl, she’s out of it. Go get a blanket, we have to try and warm her up. Here you go, try and take a sip.

Jenny: Cough, garp, hack, moan …cough hack.

KARL: Fuck what are you doing? Trying to drown her? Get outta the way you Neanderthal. Hey there,  gorgeous, how you doing? You OK?

PHIL: She’s not with us Karl. Fuck, this is all we need. Shit it. I have to get ready for work.Shit shit shit. Like I needed this on my first day.

KARL: She’s going yellow! Christ! Call an ambulance Phil, ….DIAL 999!. Don’t just stand there! Hey, come on sweetie, wake up.

PHIL: OK, (into phone) Um, yeah sure. Phil Linksman. Huh? LS6-3PT, What? … Nature?  Oh, right,  A girl has passed out in our flat, she’s pale, going yellow, and, and, she’s hardly breathing …. Yeah, Ambulance I suppose, yeah, number 8, flat 2 . Thank you, yeah we’ll stay by the phone. Okay. ….. (to Karl) They said a response crew will be here in five…. Hey, Karl, here, take the phone, I   gotta get dressed, keep her warm, and keep trying to wake her. I’ll come back and take over.

KARL: (into phone) What? No he’s passed the phone to me. What? Karl Mussen, ….No just  sharing. He’s gone to the bathroom….to get ready for work….. She’s barely breathing, all cold. No.  No drugs, I don’t think, plenty of booze though probably….

JENNY: crkra cough, uuurrr…….(soft groan, exhale).

KARL: Oh shit! What the?...I, I think she’s stopped breathing….What do I do? PHIL!! GET THE FUCK        BACK OUT HERE!

PHIL: What the?!?

KARL: What’d I do?  ... She’s pissed herself, and, and,  oh christ, she’s stopped breathing.

PHIL: Quick. Lay her down. I’ll give her CPR

KARL: OK, …okay. Shit, where did you learn to do that?.... Aren’t you supposed to……                         
(sound effect :: KNOCK - KNOCK - KNOCK, door opens) …..                  

Zoe: We’re the Ambulance Response unit, We were just up the road when we got the call, Where’s the patient?

KARL: Thank god, Come through, she’s over there….

Zoe: Right. Move away sir. Steve!, Oxygen! Now! And prep 100 mill adrenalin ….. Status report. No Pulse, No respiration….. Re-commencing CPR, Get me a saliva kit Steve,   we need to know what this one’s been on.

Steve: Oxygen, mask attached. Flow 200. And Zoe, … I’ve hot keyed  for police support. Will I take the         swab now?

Zoe:  Good thinking. Pulse not detected, no respiration…. CPR continuing, ... Yeah quick, take the swab.     OK….Now, ... Gentlemen…..Has she taken any drugs?

(KARL: PHIL: together)
KARL: I don’t think so,
PHIL: not since she’s been here.

Zoe: Were there any drugs here, any at all guys?  This is important, we need to know so we can treat her.

PHIL: There were no drugs, … Shit ... Unless she bought them.

Steve: Swab indicates PCP and amphetamines,,,,,, they’re off the scale Zoe.  She's OD.

Zoe: Right. Adrenalin, administering, one shot. …. CPR ongoing….. Steve, check for pulse.

Steve: she’s not responding.
(sound effect: KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, door flies open again)

Carol:  I’m Sergeant Tanner, responding to a fatality callout at this address. Who’s in charge here?

Zoe: (still pumping CPR)   Me, officer. But you got the wrong message, I have not declared yet.  Drug test showed positive for PCP and amphetamines. Not responding to CPR.

Carol: Who owns the premises?

KARL: Phil does.  

Carol:  Who are you Sir?

KARL:  I'm Karl,  Mussen,  .... I’m here,,, just as a, well a guest of Phil's.

Carol:: Did either of you give her, or see her taking the drugs?

KARL: No

PHIL: No!

Carol: Dispatch is radioing in my ear, they tell me you, are you Phil?

PHIL: Yeah?

Carol:  Phil, on your call in to dispatch, they tell me you handed the call to Karl so you could use the bathroom . Is that correct? 

PHIL:  Yeah, I had to get dressed. 

Carol:  Will you accompany me back there while the team look after your guest please? And…Karl is it? .... You stay here with the medical crew. Do not leave the room okay?
(they move off into the adjoining bathroom)

PHIL: I was only in here getting ready to go to work officer.

Carol: Did you use the lavatory?

PHIL: No. Not this one, I have one next to my room.

Carol: So you wouldn’t know what this syringe is doing in the bowl then?

PHIL: SHIT!!! ... NO! I, I… I,…I’ve never seen it before.

Carol: But you were in here just before the medical team arrived is that correct?

PHIL: Well yeah, all my shaving stuff is in here.

Zoe: (from outside) Officer Tanner? I am declaring mortem at 7:57am.

Carol: Philip Linksman, I am arresting you of suspicion of knowingly contributing to the death of a female in your premises.

PHIL: NNOOO!!  ... THIS IS BULLSHIT !!!

Carol: You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do or say in your defence may be used in          evidence against you.

PHIL: You’ve got it all wrong…. I’ve never seen that needle. I don’t do that shit… it was someone             else…. Let me go, I wasn’t me, I have to get to work, it’s my new job .... This can’t be happening….

Carol: Come along sir it will be best if you didn’t resist. (into lapel microphone) Dispatch?, send backup and forensics to secure this address, there has been a suspicious death. Suspect has been detained.

KARL: What the hell is going on?

PHIL: I’m being arrested for killing Jenny. Shit ! I didn’t do it Karl. Get me some help will you?

KARL: (grinning weirdly) Sure Phil, don’t worry. I’ll look after it ….. Leave it all to me. . .

PHIL: (slowly dawning, then trying to escape the grip) Karl? Did you? Why…would?…….

Carol: (grunting) Come along sir don’t make this any worse for yourself than it is………

Dead Man's Shoes

The task was to write a piece to include ‘naked bouncy fun times'.  I couldn’t do it, so came up with;

DEAD  MAN’S  SHOES.

The bright yellow shop front failed to stand out from its posh high street neighbours.  A banner-flapping travel agent, a huge boot-shaped sculpture over the accessories store, the jewellery splashed pawn shop , and a fragrant  patisserie all competed to draw the passers-by away from Matthew’s charity window display.  It might be argued his window could only ever be as good as the donations but he prided himself on the interest and impact he created from the stuff he took in.

The yellow paint was the charity’s idea of street presence but Matthew found it a challenge to arrange things against that corporate colour clash.  He wasn’t that much of an aesthetic but it was important to him that this job as store manager, his first role out of uni, was something he could use on his CV to progress.   He had been given an empty shop and told to set it up.  Nothing in his arts/business degree had prepared him for such a blank directive and it seemed sales targets and turnover were a nicety as far as the charity were concerned.  Most income was gained from bequeaths and the store received little focus from the charity management.  He did often wonder what he would do next but at least for now he had an easy sort of a job. 

There were other rewards , the staff of volunteers, if you could call them staff, were nothing if not interesting and varied. Some so varied he was now wondering how to stop them volunteering.  How do you sack someone who you didn’t hire and don’t pay?  Anyway that was only a part of it.  There were the people who came and donated, some just wanted to drop and dash, some to explain why , some needed comfort.

It was Joyce Haden today again, she arrived smiling but with tear-reddened eyes.  Colin, a robust and cheery fellow well known in town for his own charity works had died in his chair about four months ago.  Since then, slowly, she had been parting with his clothes and bits and pieces.  Every visit she braced herself for the task, dressed for the occasion and bravely came to the shop to explain again why she thought Matthew would get a good price for Colin’s items which she could no longer bear to have at home.  Matthew had learned more about their marriage than he knew of his own family but she was a dear lady and he was happy to provide comfort by simply listening.

Today there were four pairs of shoes, DocMartin walking shoes, a pair of patents, some unworn brogues and a much polished and resoled pair of black shoes. 

‘He hardly wore any of these you know.  You’lll get a good price for them I’m sure, you see these?  They are Doctor Martins very expensive and he only wore them around town and in the car. You see?’  She held the soles up so Matthew could rub his finger over the still sharp pattern of the crystallised sole. 

‘Yes Joyce, I am sure the charity will benefit from these.  It is very nice of you to be so generous.’

‘Oh that’s alright dear, I can’t use them can I?  I am sorry about these old black ones but they were expensive and Colin did love them .  He got them delivered to our Paris Hotel on our honeymoon, he used to wear them for every work trip he took back to France, best shoes ever, he said… I used to catch him every now and then sitting on our bed and just softly buffing them.   Sort of like a pet he loved you know?

‘I am sure I don’t Joyce, but they do look very comfortable, ‘  Matthew guessed she didn’t expect them displayed for sale, she just couldn’t come at throwing them away.  ‘Thank you so much for bringing these all in.’ 

‘Oh that’s quite alright dear, it’s a bit of therapy for me I suppose.   I get to remember all our, our  wonderful times,  you know….?

‘I’m sure Joyce, its grand that you have so many lovely memories.’  Her eyes began to fill and she made her wishes for good profit and shyly turned and left the shop.

Matthew’s gaze followed her wistfully, and he found himself smiling gently at the thought of such a long and happy partnership.  She was a sweet lady.

He threw the shoes into the sorting basket and turned to take a sale from a girl holding a 1950’s poppy print dress and a pair of red sun glasses.  Retro was in and the £35 price tags were no deterrent to fashionistas hunting the high street.   Another lady held a couple of jigsaws and four plastic dinosaurs picked from the 50p each basket,  behind her a guy with a bin-liner full of old jeans waited to donate.  The day went on.

Just after the lunch hour rush Matthew grabbed the full sorting basket to take it upstairs but before he did he delved in to find the old black shoes and throw them in the wheelie bin.  He grabbed them and paused for a moment, the worn and polished leather was beautifully soft and, for shoes that were over fifty years old, Matthew was surprised.  He looked inside to see if he could find a brand and noticed the innersole lifting at the heel.  It moved to his touch and there was a plastic wrapped page tucked beneath.  Intrigued, he slid it out, checked the other shoe and finding no brand, pocketed the paper and threw the shoes away.  He gathered up the donated clothes, flipped the open sign, closed the door and lugged the donations upstairs for a sit, a coffee, and a look at that piece of paper.

The smell of coffee was a reward in itself, Matthew had spent most of his first week’s pay on that espresso machine and he sat now surrounded by donations and opened the plastic bag to read the page inside.  It was dated about a year ago and written in a woman’s flowing hand;

‘Mon doux loup,’  it said. ‘My sweet wolf’ translated Matthew automatically. ‘I thank you so much for another wondrous weekend.  Even since 53 years I am slave to the (naked bouncy fun) times we share in our pied-à-terre.  I lose breath waiting for your return to my side.  Hurry back to me, I long to lie spent and content beside my little wolf pup.  

Je t'aime

ta Michele-Louise.

                                                     

savage island 2

It’s a tradition

Like every eldest male in his family, Bill had wanted to join up, to serve, to contribute, and to honour his family’s military history.  Since records have been scribed and portraits hung, the Cuthbursons had dutifully fought for king, queen or country.   The family had prospered and suffered equally for their resolve and Bill sensed that weave of events and actions had bound him to continue the history.   He took a sip and reflected on the remembrance day four years ago.

The sun that day glinted pride off the medals the old soldier had pinned to his blazer pocket.  The crowd watched respectfully as he’d pushed through his pain on the march, up the rise and into his village square.  Bill could see in his grandfather’s set face that the tears in his eye were not born from forcing his seized joints to step forward again and again, they were the tears from the grief of lost sons, dead friends and broken marriages.  There was however, behind the pain, still that steely resolve locked into that wizened countenance.  A resolve burning him to march with his last breath, with honour and without regard to self, all for the glory of victories past and the fight for right.  It was this paternal exemplar that drove the continuing Cuthburson legacy of militia enlistment.  Bill’s son Will had stood beside him that 11^th day, at attention, his parade uniform pressed and his unadorned chest swelled with bravado.

Not for this latest William Cuthburson would be the rat-putrid and fetid trenches of Europe, nor the ocean-locked solitude and tactical blundering of the Falklands.  No, young Will would be forever aware of the ditch or mound beside a desert road, cautious of a welcoming resident, permanently watching the back of his buddy and command.  A degree course in paranoia locked in an oven of discontent would be Will’s lot, and Bill knew it would scar the lad and taint his life forever.   

The memory of that 11 November morning in 2008 was today playing on Bill’s mind as the BBC news banner rolled across the screen.  11/11/08 was the last time the three warrior Cuthbersons had shared a drink at the local, the old man quietly lamenting the loss of his eldest son, the young soldier espousing the invincibility of technologies in modern warfare, and Bill was there, caught between a sense of pride, of loss and with a gnawing fear for his son’s wellbeing.   Their parting was cursory after a few drinks, the old man was taken back to the home, young Will put on the bus back to barracks and Bill had wandered home to his dank flat to ponder again through a whisky clouded cut-glass lens.  All of them had shared a hug and a ‘see you soon’ back at the pub, knowing that they would.  

But they had not.

The old man had passed in his sleep and young Will was posted to Kabul on the same day.  Bill received a voicemail from his ex-wife saying she was sad to learn of the old man’s death and despite her fears, she wished their son well. There was a soft kindness in her words Bill had no idea how to respond to, so he didn’t. 

 What he did was have a drink and remember.   He remembered the fear of exocets and the scream of air support as he had hunkered down in the grasses with the winter wind whipping his kit .  He remembered the mortar thud vaporising half of his sergeant in the ditch beside him and he remembered vomiting as he charged forward to the next hillock, closer to the enemy but away from the mortar’s sweep.  It was the only memory he could still be sure of from his service, the drugs and the abuse he had delivered on himself and his wife had in time erased those Falkland horrors.  He wasn’t sure if he drank now to remember or to forget.

Through the whisky the elaborate paintings of Bill’s grand forebears looked down incongruously from the stained walls of his tiny flat.  His eye fell once more to the painting of the young be-medalled officer who had been his father, a man he’d never known other than from stories told by others.  The husband who his mother could not speak of without grief choking her words.  The father whose memory he had idolised and on whose behalf Bill had gone to war to deliver a Cuthburson retribution on a different enemy.

There was no logic in warfare, the Germans had killed Bill’s father, the Argentinean’s would die.  

But they did not suffer at his hand.  It was not the war won on the field, it was his battle lost at home.  For every life stolen in trenches, on beaches, in air and water there are ten at home destroyed by loss, or worse, by the return of a cracked and broken sub-hero.  Bill’s father, he thought, was in that way lucky to have caught a friendly cannon round in Ypres.  The fight when Bill returned home was much longer and less clearly defined than the mission away, the lessons learned in strategy, defence and attack, meaningless in the lounge room.   The families of veterans may expect to be beaten or ignored but they can not expect normality from a returning warrior.  There is no rule, no school, the soldier shall cope. 

The soldier will most likely return to war where his skills are more attuned.  Bill was not fit to return.

This last November, 2011, in the icy rain, young Will had worn the old man’s medals proudly on his right.  Father and son shared a gentle ale before Will returned for his fifth tour, a double back to back.  The young Major Will Cuthburson prefers active postings to the alternative, and he has a legacy to honour.

So today, a warm July Monday, Bill slumps in his armchair, drinks his whisky re-reads the banner headlines.  He is not shocked, not awed, not even convinced.  He hears how it was that Syria has had the  Weapons of Mass Destruction all along. 

Nothing has changed.

Every horror or conflict near or far, every economic or moral cause still exudes the same nationalistic call for loyalty.  With fervour and outrage, a sense of decency, for the sake of the monarch, for peace and the rights of all humans, Bill’s country will voice its stake.  This small and savage island will again and forever send it’s best to serve, to suffer, to die, or worse, to return home.         

Savage island

It’s a tradition:

Like every eldest male in his family, Bill had wanted to join up, to serve, to contribute, and to honour his family’s military history.  Since records have been scribed and portraits hung, the Cuthbursons had dutifully fought for king, queen or country.   The family had prospered and suffered equally for their resolve and Bill felt the weave of events and actions bound him to continue the history.   He took a sip and reflected on a remembrance day four years ago.

The sun that day had glinted pride from the medals the old soldier had pinned to his blazer pocket. He’d pushed through his pain from the march, up the rise and into his village square.  Bill could see the agony in his grandfather’s set face, the tears in his eye were not born from forcing his seized joints to move again and again, they were the tears from the grief of lost sons, dead friends and broken marriages.  There was however, behind the pain, still that steely resolve locked into that wizened countenance, a resolve burning him to march with his last breath, with honour and without regard to self, all for the glory of victories past and the fight for right.  It was this masculine exemplar that drove the continuing Cuthburson legacy of militia enlistment.  Bill’s own son had stood there, that 11^th day, at attention, by his side, parade uniform pressed and his unadorned chest swelled with bravado.

Not for this latest Cuthburson would be the rat-putrid and fetid trenches of Europe, nor the ocean-locked solitude and tactical blundering of the Falklands.  No.  Young Will would be made forever aware of the ditch or mound beside a desert road, cautious of a welcoming resident, permanently watching the back of his buddy and command.  A degree course in paranoia locked in an oven of discontent would be Will’s lot, and Bill knew it would scar the lad and taint his life forever.   

The memory of that 11 November morning in 2008 was today playing on Bill’s mind.  11/11/08 was the last day the three warrior Cuthbersons had shared a drink at the local, the old man quietly lamenting the loss of his dearest son, the young soldier espousing the invincibility of technologies in modern warfare, and Bill was there, caught between a sense of pride, of loss and with a gnawing fear for his son’s wellbeing.   Their parting was cursory after a few drinks, the old man was taken back to the home, young Will put on the bus back to barracks and Bill had wandered home to his dank flat to ponder again his ruined marriage through a whisky clouded cut-glass lens.  All of them had shared a hug and a ‘see you soon’ back at the pub, knowing that they would.  

But they had not.

The old man had passed in his sleep and young Will was posted to Kabul the same day.  Bill received a text from his wife saying she was sad to learn of the old man’s death and wishing their son well.  Bill had no idea how to respond so he didn’t.   What he did was have a drink and remember.   He remembered the fear of scuds and the scream of air support as he was hunkered down in the grasses with the winter wind whipping his kit .  He remembered the mortar thud vaporising half of his sergeant in the ditch beside him and he remembered vomiting as he charged forward to the next hillock, closer to the enemy but away from the mortar’s sweep.  It was the only memory he could be sure of from his service, the drugs and the abuse he had delivered on himself and his wife had in time erased the Falkland horrors.  He wasn’t sure if he drank now to remember or to forget. Through the familiar lens the paintings of his grand forebears had looked down incongruously from the stained walls of his tiny flat.  Lowering the glass his eye had fallen to the painting of the young be-medalled officer who had been his father, a man he’d never known other than from stories told by others.  The husband who his mother could not speak of without grief choking her words.  The father whose memory he had idolised and on whose behalf Bill had gone to war to deliver a Cuthburson retribution on a different enemy.

There was no logic in warfare, the Germans had killed his father, the Argentinean’s would die.  

But they did not suffer at his hand.  It is not a war won on the field, it is a battle lost at home.  For every life stolen in trenches, on beaches, in air and water there are ten at home destroyed by loss, or worse, by the return of a cracked and broken sub-hero.  Bill’s father, he thought, was in that way lucky to have caught a friendly cannon round in Ypres.  The fight when home is much longer and less clearly defined than the mission away, the lessons learned in strategy, defence and attack are meaningless in the lounge room.   The families of veterans may expect to be idolised, abused or ignored but they can not expect normality from a returning warrior.  There is no rule, no school, the soldier should cope.  The able soldier will most likely return to war where his skills are more attuned.

November, 2011, in the icy rain, young Will had worn the old man’s medals proudly on his right, before returning for his fifth tour, a twelve month back to back.  Major Will Cuthburson prefers active postings to the alternative.

So today Bill slumps in his armchair, drinks his whisky and listens to how it was that it is Syria that has had the weapons of mass destruction all along.  Nothing has changed. Every horror or conflict near or far, every economic or moral cause still exudes the same nationalistic call for loyalty.  With fervour and outrage, a sense of decency, for the sake of the monarch, for peace and the rights of all humans, his country will voice its stake.  This small and savage island will again and forever send it’s best to serve, to suffer, to die, or worse, to return home.         

Mr Power - the hunger for education

Mr Power,

 We have moved away from friends, distanced ourselves from family support networks.  The grandparents are stoical and despite trying to hide it, quietly saddened at the distance now between them, their grandson and their soon to be granddaughter.

But Sophie and I agreed, we had to move here, for the kids, for their future, so they had the best possible chance in life.  The chance we never had to be accepted into the most desirable of all schools.

 Our postcode now places us in the heartland of three academic institutions.  We are a little out of place I have to admit, our 57 reg. family wagon does not match up and I can see sympathy in their polite smiles as the neighbours view the accommodation we can afford on my salary .

It’s the eleventh of July and we were scheduled to meet at the school at 13:15.  We stand, unsure, in the gleaming entrance, the large chrome doors hushed shut behind us.

He strides down the hallway and breezes into the foyer smiling with the well-fed pomp and purpose of a man controlling a desirable asset. 

‘Welcome to our little piece of Britain’s future.  Mark, Sophie, I am so pleased you have chosen to come and see us.’    He enthused, projecting a fleshy hand to me and his eyes to Sophie. ‘I understand you have a lad you are thinking of entrusting to our educational process,,, and I can see,’ changing his smile to a knowing grin, ‘You are planning another attendee?’ He released his grip and with a gracious backhand indicated Sophie’s tightly constrained mid section.

‘Yes, a little girl, due in two months.’  Sophie pre-empted ,  keen to get on with the business at hand.

‘Oh delightful, I am sure we will enjoy her here enormously too, should you elect to enrol her.’ He drew breath  as he continued. ‘But Please excuse me, I must apologise, of course I know all about you from your application, I’m Gary Power, Chief administrator.  I am your greeter and explainer and it’s my role to simply show you around and impress you with our facility. Oh good, I see you parked in the visitor’s bay.’  A vast executive saloon stood gleaming near the entry.

‘ Well, no actually, we walked. Yours is the closest of the three possible schools to our home.’  I was pleased to be able to get a word in between his practiced patter, and to indicate we were still quite undecided about our options...  This wasn’t the case as Sophie had told me repeatedly this was the best of the three schools and we had to ensure we presented ourselves professionally.  I was on the tightest of her leashes.

‘Excellent, I am pleased we are so convenient for you.  Come, let’s begin the tour!’  And without pausing he turned and headed off, glancing over his shoulder to say,  ‘It is timely that you should be looking this term,  we rarely have vacancies now but, I can say, if you do decide to enrol, a place may be made available’

‘Oh? Really? How come?’ Sophie was almost unable to contain her professionalism.

‘Oh, there are ways… but if it makes a difference in your selection decision, I can guarantee you a place here.’  And a  grin creased his podgy countenance as he led us on an exploration of the classroom and sporting facilities, regaling us with academic achievements and recognition attained by the school and the students.   He also explained an initiative where the school enrolled homeless local children and, as he put it, processed them through the system to ensure they could contribute to the school and community.  Sophie was growing more convinced of the school’s suitability and as we passed by the kitchens, redolent of sumptuous meals, she advised Mr. Power of our desire to formally enrol our lad.

‘Excellent! Let me congratulate you both on your wise decision!  We look forward to processing your son through our education.’  He again shook my hand and offered a smile and an open hand to Sophie. ‘Oh, look, given the timing,’ glancing up at the nearest wall clock, ‘Would you like to join the head teacher’s table for lunch?’

‘That would be great, thank you.’  I accepted perhaps too willingly, my nose driving my sudden appetite.  The luncheon was delectable,  the pork stew a keynote and we were enthralled by the informative chat and camaraderie of the staff who showed a special and common bond.  

‘This meal was delicious’ mouthed Sophie as she swept the gravy with a piece of crusty loaf.

‘Well, thank you, we are quite famous for it you know, we pack and sell this particular stew nationally , the income supplements school fees so we can better provide the facilities you have seen.’

‘Oh, I’d love to see the kitchens.’    Sophie was a food tech in her pre-parent career but was to be thwarted at this time.

‘Regrettably, due to OH&S you understand, that will not be possible but you do join us on a rather special kitchen occasion.’  Mr Power grinned.  ‘Today we confirmed a huge re-order so we can now enrol a lot more youngsters!’ 

I could see Sophie had as many questions as I did about how that all worked but the other teachers wanted to know about our lad and to describe the school’s approach to their higher sciences.  Towards the end of a most interesting hour Mr Power rose and excused himself saying he had some details to take care of, said he would process our documentation and gave us directions back to the foyer.
Passing by the kitchens again Sophie couldn’t resist sticking her head through the door to have a quick look.  It was the large pile of neatly folded school uniforms that initially puzzled her but what put a gnawing ache in the pits of our gut were the small well-washed bodies slowly moving along what looked for all the world like an abattoir line.