14

14 Harrogate Road,  Leeds.

The weathered timber step let out a creak under his weight and made Chris stare down.  He was surprised that even in their current state of decay the front steps held to their old task and warned the house of people arriving.  There had been no one making their way up these gapped planks of wood for years though, rotting leaves clung together filling the corners of the stairs, the cracked and open grain of the wood lay exposed and scared by relentless years of weather.  In the past Chris had climbed these porch steps thousands of times, moving over them with no pause or consciousness.  As he stood looking at his feet on the steps, his smart Italian footwear contrasting against the rotting planks,  what he saw was the boy and man, a wood and leather allegory to his life of pretence.  

Glancing  up at the derelict facade of his old home he was glad this was the last time he would ever open the cracked front door and enter the hallway with its bent staircase and worn-down floor.  He was relieved he would never have to return again, never have to pretend a kindness to the people who once occupied the place, never have to justify abandoning a place which reminded him of the secret event and that hid the evidence of his deed.
When he'd received the final notice of approval for demolition from the city planners  this morning, it had bought him both concern and delight.  It was a surprise to him as he had not received notification the process of dereliction had been commenced.  It was great news, finally a finish, a razing to the ground, an eradication of past passions and a wiping of his hateful history.  Then a concern fell over his delight sucking warmth from the relief like a dank cloak,  it meant he could no longer avoid taking action, he had to return to the place. 

He picked his way up the edge of the weakened steps and made it on to the porch, here he had to take extra care to avoid gaps where the boards had rotted and fallen through.  The old screen door sagged ajar, blown open to slump, bent against the cracked brickwork… As he pushed the old front door open an arc of Minton tiles were exposed through the old mail laying on the floor.  The weakened door jammed itself, a mound  of litter pushed behind, Chris didn’t bother about closing it behind him and walked  over the crackling piles of paper.  To the right, the home's twisted stairway had retained its handrail but not its wrought iron lacework.  Some enterprising and energetic thief had liberated that classic bit of artistic value.  Thieves couldn't steal the memories though and looking at the stairway Chris recalled sitting secretly,  his head pressed against the steel flowers of the balustrade, nervously eavesdropping on the discussions of his parents and their adult guests.  That memory and the things he had overheard when he should not have been listening took him back to some more innocent  and then to some much darker times. 
Peering in to the left, the old front room discouraged his entry and telegraphed danger with its plaster ceiling hanging precariously from the rafters.  The leaves and rubbish blown in through the gaping window left no place for his childhood memories of christmas trees, grandfathers' laughter or the warming log fire.  On the floor too, destroying all recollection of domestic harmony, an old crime scene tape wove its confused path through the filth.  Looking over, Chris was struck by how the stains and shotgun blast remained so starkly evident on the mouldy wall leading to the dining room.  Broken from his reverie by the ugly mental images he turned and made his way through vandalised spaces, through to where the kitchen was and quickly out through the utility room and into the coal store.  He didn’t want to linger, he should spend as little time here as possible to retrieve the evidence.

There is a clarity of recollection that is burned into a mind by an event so traumatic, and despite the passage of years and all the events since, he recalled exactly where to go .  Chris stepped up onto the old brick stoop, removed the loose brick then reached confidently down into the cavity between the roof timbers and the outside wall.  His fingers brushed a rough, scaled form and he retracted his arm, thinking quickly.  It had been 14 years but stupidly he had still expected to feel the cold smooth oiled barrels of the weapon.  Obviously, he thought now, of course time would have eaten away and encrusted the metal evidence.  He realised it was probably an unnecessary, foolish and risky plan, his returning today.  With corrosion there was no reason, not after all this time, to come and remove the evidence.  Even if demolition workers do uncover the gun, the rot and rust will have clearly ensured no fingerprints would remain.  He paused in a dilemma, did he continue with his plan to risk taking it away and dumping it? If anyone finds him with the gun before he disposes of it, his involvement would be obvious.  He was still famous by his association to the event and only the real murderer would have known where the death weapon had been secreted.  So should he just leave it, trusting that even if the gun was found during demolition no connection to him could be made?  He could go back home, be the husband and father he had become since the trial, and continue to live his life as the innocent son of a drunken wife murderer… But then, he would always be thinking, some time, some how, that gun could lead to his discovery.  He watched all those forensic shows, what if the demolition men did find the gun, what if there was now a new scientific way to trace it to him as the shooter?  
Chris decided. 
It would be best, well worth the small risk in timing to properly destroy the evidence,  he'd retrieve the thing and destroy it, that was the best thing to do, he was certain.   

He reached back up and feeling down  into the gap got a solid grip on the rusty barrels.  With a few awkward tugs and a grinding drag he freed the corroded 12 gauge from its hide.   It had only taken a few seconds and the weapon was now his to destroy properly.  However time and worms had been harsh on the wood, his less than careful pulling had left much of the gun’s stock behind in the wall.   Chris swapped the rusted barrels to his left hand and stretched back in to find the rest of the gun. 
In mid-reach a cold shiver ran through him. 
He sensed rather than heard a presence behind him. 
Turning slowly he saw first the sneer on Detective Barron’s face, and almost simultaneously he heard the distinctive click of handcuffs opening in preparation for securing another life in custody. 

misheard

This is the first story I have posted that Gail has said she absolutely hates.  I don't hate it  so I'm posting it but I will probably write another to theme.

Miss Herd

It was a sweet thatched and lead glazed cottage, picket fenced and nudging the village green.     Sylvia and George had fallen in love with it the minute they drove through the iron gates of Lady Monde’s estate.  There were the usual delays and frustrations but within weeks the house was theirs and they started to do the repairs any old building needs.  

The villagers were welcoming to the new arrivals and approved that George was beautifying the exterior of the old cottage as the first stage of his renovations.   By way of its sumptuous thatch and fresh paint the cottage was again a key aesthetic to enhance one's stroll on the village green. 

George did fancy himself as a capable sort of fellow and undertook the job of stripping the internal walls and ceilings and removing the old kitchen and bathroom.  He had discovered it was best to wear a glove to pull at rubble while a bare hand was best to feel the weakness or solidity of the plaster.  To this one glove affectation Sylvia had sung him the Robert Palmer classic ‘you might as well face it you’re a dick with a glove.’ They’d chuckled at the old joke, Sylvia often got songs wrong and this was a classic George had corrected, embarrassingly, when they had first met.

The strip-out was turning into a much larger job than George had anticipated.  Areas he had thought fairly sound had turned into whole rooms of dust filled demolition.  His mood often failed and Sylvia’s cheery singing was a strange relief when ever she bought him a tea.  He smiled as she approached this time, he could hear her singing that ‘the ants are my friend, they're blowing in the wind’, that Dylan classic from the 60’s.
‘Hiya hon,’ George grinned at her and wiped the dust from his eyes. ‘You do know that you're singing your words to that song again don’t you?’
'Yeah, probably. ... When are you going to be through making this mess? The builder just rang me asking for start dates’. 
George sat on a pile of broken plaster and looked around his disaster. ‘You know, I don't think we can afford him to fix all of this.’
‘It’ll be okay, hon.’  Sylvia had no idea how it would be all okay but things had always had a way of working out. ‘You’re just spending your every spare moment in this muck, … what you need is a little break’
‘Yeah, maybe, but this won’t move itself into the skip’
‘Well, I can help, but you need a rest, let’s take a walk into town.’
George sipped his tea, stared at the rubble, the cracked plaster still clinging to the walls and decided a short walk in the fresh air may just be the best thing.

A typical day in Monde’s town is quiet at the best of times but on a Sunday the street is deserted, the shops that do open for the morning all close well before noon.  The high street was empty and they spent time looking through the general store window, at the charity shop's display and reading house prices in the local real estate agent.  Turning the corner they strolled beside the original facade of the bank, redundant now.  A modern glass entry on the new High Street provided the required security entrance now.  George liked these huge old carved doors which still hung proud but were only retained as a fire exit.  He stepped up off the pavement to run his hands over the fine carving and sadly pitted brass-work.  To his surprise the heavy doors gave to his touch. ‘Hey, look! Frank has forgotten to lock the back door!’    
‘Well just pull it shut then.’
George peered inside, the internal doors were also ajar.. He called out ‘Hello? You in here Frank?’ then turning to the street ‘Every door inside the place is open Syl, I’m going in to have a quick look.’

‘Just shut the door George, I’ll ring up and report it.'

‘Yeah, okay, you call Frank but I’m going in to check and make sure no one’s hurt in here.’ He pushed open the inner glass door and walked into the old marble lobby.  It was deathly quiet inside this old building.  Ornate brass-edged glass cages surrounded the four teller counters and George noted their security doors were open as well.  Behind the counters, the clerk’s desks and manager’s office were clear of any papers but every drawer and filing cabinet was open.  Strange, George thought, this isn't a robbery scene, there’s nothing strewn about, everything neat and tidy, but open.  Maybe this was how the bank was always left after closing time.

In the low light his eyes became dry and he rubbed some grit from their edges and at the same time George began to feel strange,  like something  was stealing the wetness from his mouth. ‘Hey, Syl. there's a weird smell in here, no-one's about and everything is open.   

‘Yeah, well leave it all alone and come out will you? ‘

‘I think the dust has finally got to me, I’m as dry as a nun.  Just going to find a drink of water.’ 

‘Okay, Hon. ‘there’s a bathroom on the right’ she sang the old Credence tune through the open door.  George would have laughed but he was feeling light headed as he set off to the tap.

Sylvia’s phone rang just as she was about to put her head inside and call out to George.  He had been taking a while to drink. ‘Hi Sylvia, Frank here, I got your message, the pest guys must have forgotten to lock it and put the sign up on the back door when they finished.  Make sure you stay away, we are fumigating the place, it’ll be super toxic in there…..’

Sylvia’s  scream was heard throughout the town and the fumigators packing up their gear at the main entrance to the bank were the first to get to her.  Donning their hazmat suits they saw George slumped beneath the hand basin, water running from the tap.  

                                                                        ~~

It was a pleasant sunlit afternoon when they retrieved his body and laid him on the green..  Sylvia's sobbing form was buried into George's chest, the scene of dismay disrupting the view of the picturesque thatched cottage with its dusty leaded windows.

                                                                      ~~~~

(okay, notes for the uninitiated; a Mondegreen is a word coined about 140 years ago by Sylvia Wright who misheard a poem's line which was written.... and they 'laid him on the green'.  She heard 'Lady Mondegreen' and memorised the poem as such. For the curious amongst you, google it. 
My favourite mondegreen is the tenth of Santas reindeer, Olive.  As in ... 'Olive, the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names')

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.