Tag: ShortStories

The Emperor

Resting on a palanquin lined with furs the Emperor looked disinterestedly at the lines of slaves who’d been instructed to leave behind their rusting blades and walk the fields to create a fence of flesh along the dusty road in order to pay their respects to this; their leader. Unmoved by the normal sight, he passed the time by filtering out the menfolk and instead focused on the women whose bowed heads hid their expressions. What you cannot see is more erotic and he daydreamed about leaving behind the palanquin and stepping down to brush away greasy lank locks to stroke eyelids, to trace his fingertips along their forms before roughly pushing them to the ground and forcing himself on them. He leant back at the thought and sighed heavily as repression and longing caressed him. He was bored with the women that came to his room late in the evening; dressed in colourful lace, pearls and silks. They were too eager to please him and the only aspect he found titillating was knowing they did it out of fear of what would happen if was not satisfied. What he longed for was to search out a woman of his own and take her outside where it was forbidden; where they might be caught. He made a mental note to do this someday.

The dying grasses of the fields yawned open to reveal the wall of the citadel and as the great iron wrought gates were laboriously pulled apart, he stretched his legs idly wondering what they had prepared for him to eat that day. The four slaves who had carried him carefully set down the palanquin and his favoured man, Chien, lifted away the heavy scarlet curtains and bowed courteously as the Emperor heaved himself out of the crimson cushions and set himself down heavily onto the ground. Adjusting his robes he shuffled past the lily ponds and dragon topiary to step inside the shaded inner court where a table had been set for him. Settling down into the throne at the furthest point away from the garden swathes of servants appeared as though by osmosis and silently placed steaming bowls of rice, fermented pork rolls, cha tom, sour prawns and rice wine before standing back to flank the grand table while he ate his fill. As was customary for him, he noticed the sharp lines of their cheekbones, the saggy nature of their clothes as they hung from bones that needed fat and he felt content knowing that they were watching him, expressionless but salivating while he ate his fill.

The afternoon was tiresome; there was paperwork to complete, documents to read and act upon alongside monotonous meetings with dignitaries whom he had little interest in, particularly the ones who made the most effort to compliment him and feigned savouring every word he uttered. To pass the time more enjoyably, he poured himself small cups of spirit until his senses were suitably numbed and the colours that surrounded those he was meant to be listening to were blurry. Without thinking he signed numerous sheets of paper with great swirling violet flourishes until finally they tiptoed away.

The Emperor leaned back onto his sumptuous cushions and looked from under half shut eyes at the lattice work on the windows and the carvings on the furniture. He listened lazily to the caged bird at the other end of the room sing its melancholy song.

‘Emperor?’

The voice was unfamiliar to him. In his stupor he only moved his head slightly to the right and mumbled,

‘Who are you?”

Without answering he could hear someone shuffling across the cool floor, the robes sniffling like rodents behind the ankles of whoever was approaching.

Being accustomed to having no need to fear anything or anyone, the Emperor did not pick up the fact the bird in the cage had stopped singing.

Whoever it was had stopped behind him and was emanating a subtle scent of myrrh and another oil the Emperor was unable to identify.

‘How was your day today?’

This was not a question the Emperor was accustomed to being asked. Intrigued finally, he tried to move his head but discovered he was more intoxicated than he had thought was as his neck seemed suddenly to be made of lead and unable to move.

Mumbling he tried to respond but gave up.

‘You were fed well?’

The Emperor tried to nod.

‘Nothing was of discomfort to you?’

Puzzled the Emperor tried to shake his head.

‘Did you enjoy seeing your subjects?’

He tried to shrug.

‘Have you ever really seen your subjects?’

Suddenly a small globe was offered to him by the unidentified person behind him. He couldn’t tell whether they were male or female. Even the globe was held by a hand that was hidden by a long dark blue sleeve that was decorated with golden thread that included an embroidered circle with spokes, an ever decreasing spiral and dots. The swirls in the globe shifted into shapes that looked like ghouls bending over, howling and holding onto their shrunken bellies, there seemed to be dark shapes bent over working and sweating in the midday sun, dead babies lying skeletal in shallow graves beneath the shadow of a buddha.

‘At least they are free to do what they choose, they don’t have to do dull paperwork, can eat whenever they can instead of waiting for people to serve you’ the Emperor mumbled slurred irritably at what he saw as a needless reminder of what just a few people had to live through; he knew that the vast majority were fine, working and earning money. Those that suffered probably deserved it because of their laziness to find better work, he thought.

‘You seem to feel imprisoned in your current life. What if I could offer you the chance to return to this life free from paperwork; a life where you won’t have to answer to anybody; where you will be completely free?’

The Emperor smiled and sighed, ‘yes’.

The globe vanished and just the hand remained holding a tiny pot of dark liquid from which rose a faint metallic smell.

‘Dip the end of your plait into this and sign my hand’ the voice instructed.

The Emperor’s long black tail of a plait slithered over his shoulder and with some difficulty he placed the end in the pot and signed his name onto the waiting palm. As he did so, the hand seemed to shape shift into a paw but after a blink the flesh remained pale and the fingertips smooth with short nails.

Exhausted, the Emperor fell back into a stupor and slept until the dawn painted his eyelids with a carmine flush.

Years later the Emperor would look upon the events of that afternoon as one would a strange dream or hallucination. The only troubling issue for him was that the ends of his plait always seemed to have a reddish hue when he stood in the light but he simply put that down to age and gave no more thought to it than he did his starving flea ridden subjects.

He lived a long life, which was not surprising. As the decades drew on he moved less and less only moving his corpulent figure when absolutely necessary, demanding more from his concubines and insisting on visiting his subjects in the palanquin so he could check they were all contributing to society and working hard. He seemed incapable of looking beyond the swollen mounds of grain and vegetables in order to recognise the hollow cheeks, sullen eyes and angry clenched fists.

Finally, the morning arrived when Chien entered the Emperor’s bedroom and found him on his back, mouth open like a fish and only the rancid reek of his final breath gave any hint that the body on the bed had ever been alive.

The mourning period was brief and obligatory. Having fathered as many illegitimate sons as a man possibly could, the eldest was chosen to be the heir and after his father was sunk into a deep pit in the grounds of the citadel, the boy quickly made it clear that he had no intention of continuing his father’s gluttonous and selfish ways. He was heralded as revolutionary and the people quietly celebrated the passing of the old man.

So what of the Emperor and his strange meeting decades earlier?

After death, he had woken with a start in a stinking quagmire that offended his sensitive nose. His eyes wouldn’t open and when he opened his mouth only a squeak came out. Panicked he tried to move but discovered he couldn’t co-ordinate in the manner that he was accustomed to. Terrified he snuffled closer to the warm bodies around him and found their musty scent to be of comfort although inexplicable. In the background he could hear a muffled roar, clanging and voices that sounded vaguely familiar to him although he couldn’t identify what they were saying or who they were.

Gradually, his panic subsided and a sudden drowsiness cloaked him so he slept as he entered the welcome numbing of sleep he thought that he’d wake the next day and feel much more like his own self.

Except he didn’t.

In fact, every day he would wake, confused, disorientated and afraid. Not being able to open his eyes was particularly disturbing and he’d try to cry out but only helpless squeaks would form  and in his frustration he would reach out and paw at anything and everything.

Nobody came to his rescue.

A hellish week or two ensued and although he became accustomed to what had happened to him, the morning he woke and rubbed his eyes to be met with hazy and blinding light was such a relief. Nothing came into focus for a while but when it did he sat up in alarm. He was surrounded by giants. Giant dark eyes, giant paws, giant tails, giant noses. He backed away in alarm but the largest of them all opened her jaws and he cowered in fear as the dark cavern drew closer but she only engaged with the ruff of his neck and promptly deposited him back in the litter with the rest of his brothers and sisters. He’d become a dog.

Astounded he spent days trying to work out how this could be and how it could have kept his knowledge of his past life to the point that he was all the more acutely aware of the terrible imprisonment he found himself in. The horror of the early days of realisation soon subsided when he realised that at least he was safe with his pack, his mother was forthcoming with milk and he was protected. He almost became accepting of his fate until of course the day she didn’t come back and one by one his brothers and sisters left him behind the bins of the building site that they had called home for so many weeks. Thus his life on the streets began. Initially, he had been confident that he could persuade people to part with scraps if he behaved well, or looked at them innocently and in fact this did work before the fleas crept in and snuggled into the roots of his fur. As his appearance grew more and more unkempt his hunger likewise grew. Eventually, his fur hung in thick greasy clumps before large sections fell out. Once, he was chased out of a shop and ran straight into a motorbike that crushed his paw and he spent weeks hobbling in pain until eventually the bone mended into a permanent bend and he had to hop from one filthy street to the next. Always he would bemoan his fortune and fate, not understanding why the gods had bequeathed him this fate.

And then, as happens, the answer came. He’d been dragging his broken and itching body around the streets of Hue sniffing at mouldy jackfruit in the gutter when he looked up and saw a group of peasants sitting low on stools and quickly slurping noodles. They were talking in low voices but seemed friendly enough. Hopeful, the dog hobbled over and sat looking with sad eyes at the feast sat on the table straight ahead of him. Steaming plates of beef laced with coriander sat next to fresh spring rolls, spicy prawns and elephant fish. Salivating he whimpered. He overheard one of the peasants say

‘Shall we take pity on that poor thing and give him some of our food?’

At this the dog sat up wagging its tail looking from one face to the next. Most of the group looked up and acknowledged him with sympathy and one even began to reach over to pick up some beef to place on the ground next to him but he was stopped by the large, hard faced man whose skin was freckled from too many afternoons spent working in the sun.

‘No. We have to work all day for a pittance and need our strength to harvest as much rice as we can. That dog doesn’t need as much food as we do. He’s free unlike us. He can go wherever he wants and eat whatever he finds. Don’t pity it.’

And with that he sank began into his hot bowl of soup and took to slurping again. The others followed his lead.

Stunned the dog sat back on its haunches staring helplessly at food he wouldn’t be able to touch. Out of desperation he launched himself up onto the table to try and steal a bite but was quickly beaten back down with the swipe of an anonymous hand and had to admit defeat. Morbidly, he slunk away and went to lay his bony body out on the baking pavement. Ringing in his ears were the words

‘he’s free…he’s free.’

Posted on by nelsonandemma 0

An African Fable

Another narrative inspired by my trip into the African Savannah (amazing how just 5 days out of the normative can have such a creative impact). It had been my turn to do the night watch and I was alone, freezing cold watching the fire when a cricket appeared next to me before jumping straight into the hot embers and becoming a charred mess. It made me realise how arrogant humans are…we think because we have such amazing brains we can solve any problem be it nature based or an effect of the work of humans but actually who is to say we won’t ultimately use our brains to create our demise in the future?

Cricket says: ‘My legs are powerful.’
Man says: ‘My brain is powerful.’

The Hluhluwe–iMfolozi Park lies still like an expansive carpet hugging the south-eastern side of Africa. Like the soft padded undergrowth that spreads out in a forest, snuggled amongst its nooks and crannies roam the jewels of the African Savannah: Lion, Rhino, Buffalo. No one questions their formidable strength but under their heavy paws and hooves is the terrain of the insects. And Cricket thinks he is King.

Cricket effortlessly bounds away from the guttural growls and yowls of the dawn’s watering hole gatherings. Like a wind-up toy permanently highly strung, Cricket jumps to look down on the wart-hog as he shimmies across the sandy dry riverbeds before crouching down to embrace invisibility as the giraffes dance with their necks.  Like the player who can’t settle down, he leaps from one patch of grass to another only looking ahead, not back, not reflecting and only focused on where to land next.

Man occasionally visits Hluhluwe-iMfolozi. He stands upright with his burdensome pack heavy upon his raw shoulders and the beads of sweat sparkle around his neck like a watery necklace. In his hand rests on a long rifle. He stares straight ahead, unafraid because he believes he can kill anything that wanders across his path and remain Master.

Man wishes to burrow beneath the park and ravage the secret layers beneath for gems. Money is his food and he feels excitement as his heels and toes crunch the fallen twigs and dying vegetation beneath. He looks across the Savannah and his greedy eyes imagine whirring wheels, lorries, piles of scree and black dust rising into the air. He fingers the oiled wood of the rifle and believes he can feel crisp green notes which he will exchange for smart houses, cars and clothes.

As Man stalks through the wilds he thinks upon his achievements and conquests: he has built boats that can survive the tumultuous seas, created railways that cut searing wounds across the rocky landscape and spaceships that pierce the atmosphere. As he builds his fire for the night he reflects that he has been able to harness light in the form of electric bulbs and feels secure in the knowledge that his brain means he will remain Master of all forever.

As the red heart of Scorpio burns brighter in the darkening skies, he sits by the fire and watches the flames lick the dry twigs he collected earlier. His rifle sits slumbering next to him and he knows no animal will dare investigate what he is doing as to do so would mean death. By the faint blue line of horizon, a line of elephants produce a lumbering shadow puppet performance and vultures swoop and soar above his head choosing a tree to roost in.

Cricket has sensed the end of the day and is vaulting over Acacia and through Whistling Thorn seeking a spot for rest. He enjoys the springy power of his legs and feels exhilaration as he leaps over the slow snake slumbering under the Manketti Tree, past butterflies clinging to the rocky banks like limpets made of cartouche, on and on towards the glittering light he has spotted in the near distance.

Man rests back on his elbows watching the dancing shapes of magenta through half shut eyes, nestled in the womb of an animal pelt and day-dreaming of the ivory keys on the piano he will buy.

Cricket dodges the long inquisitive tongue of a web-footed gecko and lands by Man.

Man lazily turns his head slightly to look at the cricket whose rustle alerted him to its presence and muses that for all the special features animals have such as powerful legs, teeth, weight and camouflage, his brain will always ensure his survival.

Cricket is mesmerised by the flames that reach up into the sky and thinks: my legs are powerful; I can jump over that.

He launches up into the sky and lands in the middle of the searing heat and is immediately turned to ash.

Man’s brow furrows for a moment but then he turns his back and dreams a dark and dreamless slumber.

Posted on by nelsonandemma 0

Bile

I recently learned that my Godfather had passed away. None of my family had seen or heard from him for a number of years after a messy divorce left him bitter and upset that my parents refused to take sides. He died after having had a total Gastrectomy (removal of the stomach) some ten years ago and clearly had been living under the black cloud of cancer for a long time. His death made me wonder whether those years of anger and resentment had somehow manifested themselves in his physicality.


For J.M.

The  room is vast. I have walked miles, days to see him laid semi-conscious on wooden planks suspended by a chain at the other end of the room. When I first arrived, the whiteness blinded me; BILEonce the door had been shut it had seemed like there had been nothing to focus on until I moved a couple of inches away from the entrance and my eyes fell upon the dark spot ahead. With no landmarks or clocks, it is like time has been suspended but I know it has been eons since I began to walk towards him because my stomach twists in hungry protest and my throat rasps with every intake of breath.

There is nothing apart from the white that billows and sometimes weaves around us occasionally so I can focus completely on him. A shrivelled cocoon that used to house a man. Now it is a mass of bones thinly wrapped in tissue paper skin, with a mop of dark hair threaded grey as a grotesque bow to complete the package. He lies supine, sore eyes facing the cloud-like shapes above us, refusing to make eye contact with me even though I’ve struggled to walk this far to see him.

‘I’ve waited years to see you. To clear this all up.’

He turns his head away to face the decades that await us all. Even now, he cannot bring himself to speak to me.

‘Please, face me.’

He turns and I start in horror as I watch small mites crawl from orifices of his decaying body armed with needles and thread to sew his mouth shut. His eyes rage at me defiantly.

‘Fine,’ I say and look beneath the wooden planks of his makeshift bed. He squirms in anger and resentment but can no longer shout out to me, his protestations fall helpless against the fleshy wall of his gums. There it is. In a large glass bottle suspended in a thick bilious fluid is his stomach. Deformed and rotten with cancer, it was removed a decade before but in this half way corridor it has been partially reunited with him. In fact, the intestines have pushed the rubber bung out and are starting to feel along the chains to find him again. As I watch with morbid curiosity the small intestine finds him and, using his belly button as a handle, pulls open the door to his torso to reveal a blackened liver that looks at me ruefully from a myriad of pustules. Hastily, I pull the bottle out and hold it aloft. The stomach blinks at me and I begin to walk back towards the entrance a kilometer. Howls of anguish echo. He knows. He knows what is about to be said.

I crouch down and look intently at the bottle, twisting it to see how it fares in different lights and angles. The speckles and spores of cancer change tone but always remain at base level, the colour of a thin gruel.

The stomach blinks again and from the lacerated tubes spells out the following tale…

‘When it first happened he couldn’t bring himself to talk to you because he felt as though he had failed at work, at home; it wasn’t how things were meant to have been; he was destined to be the high-flyer, Alpha-Male, self-made man. The disappointment was crippling. But as the years marched on it became harder and harder to turn things around and speak to you. Pride and resentment consumed him. Every event you took for granted; Christmas with your family, another anniversary, was a bitter and empty meal . He fed me only lies, anger and fear that served to starve me. Eventually I succumbed and couldn’t pretend to digest it all anymore. I leaked the years of poisons and they destroyed him. Within days he had me removed and blamed me for his predicament. ’

Guiltily the stomach contracts until I can no longer see the eye. Sadly, I realise this is all the closure I am ever going to get.

Thoughtfully, I walk back to where he now lies half sleeping, his pale lidded eyes half closed as though squinting at something bright. Gently, I return the stomach to its place beneath his hanging bed. Gently, I touch his hand and walk back to 1987.

As I emerge through the door I’m in a large drawing room in Cobham, Surrey. A Christmas tree glitters in one corner, John Lennon is playing softly from the play room down the hall and with a start I see the white again weaving its line across my line of vision. What reality am I really in I wonder and then he pats me on the back, hands me a drink before walking towards his son, Jamie and I realise it’s his cigar smoke, always was, his calling card (the smell lingered for days). Emma skeleton keysappears in the doorway holding Georgina’s hand and I have this strange feeling that I’m suddenly disengaged and watching this all through someone else’s memories. It’s like I’m watching him laugh and move with ease around our families and friends as though they are all in a cinematic image and I find myself wishing I didn’t know what happens next. That it turns out differently for us all.

Posted on by nelsonandemma 0

The Airing Cupboard

mad bunny       It had been exactly fifteen minutes since Matthew Mattison had left the devastating note on his mother’s chest of drawers; next to the blackened used cotton wool and parked upright by a fading photo of a dog she had owned for a short period of time when she had been ten.

It had been an exhausting day. He had been forced to recover from at least two tantrums both of which were not taken as seriously as he would have liked. The first had erupted after he had been made to attend a gym class at 8.30am even though it was a Saturday and he had planned to create a lego house for his new toy car that he had demanded the week before. The second had come to fruition after attending said gym class his heartless mother had refused to buy him a milkshake to make up for the inconvenience of it all.

So that was it. He had written his missive.

He was quite proud of it actually. He had discreetly taken a page from his father’s writing pad in his bureau and borrowed not just a thick envelope that he didn’t have to lick to seal, it came with its own glue but his dad’s best pen – which coincidentally he had decided to keep on his person as a consolation for having to sit in the airing cupboard to make his point.

As Matthew Mattison sat next to the aging boiler that hissed and creaked he rested his head against the soothing warmth of the wall and imagined the best scenario that could come from his letter.

Upon reading it, his mother would throw her hands up and wail, beating her chest as her sobs racked her and brought in his father from garden where he was currently picking out weeds.  He would rush to her aid and tear it from her both reading and comforting her as the words made their inevitable impact upon him:

‘By the time you read this, I will be gone. It is clear you don’t love me and never will. Don’t come after me, you will never find me. Farewell mother and father and may we meet in Heaven someday. I hope you have a child that you truly love one day. M.M’

It was cramped in the cupboard. Matthew Mattison tried to stretch his tiny frame but all too soon met the edge of the airing cupboard where he had decided to hide. His plan was to hide out for as long as possible to shock his parents into realizing how much they loved and missed him and then dramatically turn up – maybe around suppertime, he was pretty sure Saturday night was lasagna night, his favourite –  and then he wouldn’t have to attend gym class ever again and he would get that milkshake because they would be so happy to see him.

Twenty minutes. Why was it so quiet? It was slightly irritating to him that he hadn’t been missed for twenty minutes – what were they doing? To amuse himself he tried to make shadows with his toes using the fractured light that was filtering weakly through the crack between the door and its frame.  That soon became dull and he decided to tap out a tune they had learned in Mr. Darwin’s music class the previous day.

Twenty-five minutes. Droplets of sweat were beginning to congregate at the nape of his neck and tickle his spine. Faint pangs of hunger were starting to cramp his belly and he was just about to wonder whether it was all worth it when he heard voices coming up the stairs. This was it!

Eagerly and with a smile broadening across his face he shifted closer to the door so he could hear their reaction.

‘David, are you finished in the garden yet?’ His mother was saying

‘I think so – my back is aching from all that weeding’ his gruff voice returned.

The door to their bedroom was opened and Matthew Mattison who was in the airing cupboard adjacent to their bedroom rolled to his right and placed his hot ear to the wall so he could hear the moment the letter was discovered.

Drawers were being opened and shut and he could hear his mother shutting the windows and closing the blinds.

The sound of the shower in the en-suite was next, its water pattering against the tiles like tropical rain.

Matthew Mattison sighed with annoyance. When were they going to see his letter?

More shuffling and then he heard the shower curtain being pulled back and forth.

Surely his mother would notice while his father took his shower?

Giggles.

This was unexpected. Matthew Mattison’s heart stopped. What? His parents hated him that much that they had read the letter and found it funny? Shocked and perturbed, Matthew Mattison crawled towards the back of the cupboard where it was dusty. His hands were filthy from the floorboards and as he wiped them on his shorts he was stopped short yet again by a groan. Maybe finally his parents had stopped laughing and realized it wasn’t a joke – their son had actually gone.

More groaning. This was more like it. Devastation.

With complacency he relaxed against the wall, happy and comforted that his plan was working. He had just closed his eyes awaiting a more in-depth conversation when he heard the en-suite door bang as though someone had opened it yet the shower was still running. And then, terrible sounds, horrible sounds. The banging of a headboard against the flock wallpaper, moaning and groaning that got louder and louder. Without really knowing what he was hearing, Matthew Mattison knew that this wasn’t the behavior of two terrified and shocked parents but two people…two people….

Horrified, Matthew Mattison scuttled back to the door of the airing cupboard and tried to open it but couldn’t. The noise from his parent’s bedroom was becoming excessive. They were actually enjoying what they were doing. He’d heard rumours of an act mummies and daddies were supposed to do but had never really equated that with his. His mum and dad were far too angry and annoyed all the time when he was around to do that.

Panicked now he pushed against the door.

The bed next door continued to push again the wallpaper

Again and again he leaned his whole body against the door. To escape, for it all to be over. He tried putting his fingers in his ears but it was no use. He banged against the door with one last almighty push…

His mother screamed just as the door gave way and Matthew Mattison fell out the airing cupboard wet and sweaty like a newborn baby.airing cupboard

Silence

And then…

‘Darling, what’s that on your bedside table?’

Rustling as the envelope was opened and read.

‘Oh so he’s gone has he? Well thank god for that. It means I can have you again my sweet…’

Muffled giggles soared through the door and into the hallway where Matthew Mattison lay still on the carpet his eyes open with shock, his mind replaying and replaying and replaying and replaying…..

Posted on by nelsonandemma 0

Mirrors

No, nothing inspired by Justin Timberlake here. Dan and I chose a line that we liked from each other’s work and then tried to turn it into something else. I chose the following line from a poem he had written: ‘rows of misshapen mirrors line the inner sanctum of her thoughts’. 

 

mirrors

They come and visit her once every six months. Dutifully, they arrive as a foursome, leave familiarity outside in the car park and meander unwillingly across gritty tarmac, through dust smeared and sticky sliding doors and down the green corridor inhaling bleach to where she sits. A monolithic memorial to life. A lump of flesh and bone. A living historical document crumbling at the edges and slowly decaying into invisibility.

She prefers to sit by the window on a high back brown faux leather chair so she can gaze outside at a world she can no longer access. The view provides her with cyclical entertainment as buds burst and then shrivel before they become hidden under hoar frosts that spin spidery patterns across her line of vision. Her ability to sit still for hours like this amazes the others she shares the room with but that’s because they don’t understand what it means to marinade in a mind that is dissipating. A mind that was once sharp and alert to languages, music and reasoning but now lies dormant, asleep in a cloud of dementia.

Her family certainly don’t understand. To them she is now a chore to be undertaken like washing a car on a sunny Saturday morning or defrosting the fridge. Fragmented conversations with her often lead to fraying moods and guilty consciences. Unaware that rows of misshapen mirrors line the inner sanctum of her thoughts, they constantly question and then feign interest when a response comes that is in a tangent all of its own. Their voices slow like a record on the wrong rpm as though that will help piece together the fragments of memories and links that clutter her thoughts. As the hands of the clock make their seemingly soporific journey her family one by one cease to make effort and begin to distract themselves in their own ways. Her adult son sits and picks the hardened skin around his thumb nails whilst idly fantasizing about the woman they passed earlier in the car park; his wife writes out a shopping list while her grandson and daughter idly flick through photos on their phones or angrily text friends they weren’t able to meet up with because they are with her. All are bodily present in this chilly room with its aging television in one corner, frayed and out of date gossip magazines and childish board games but none of them are present. They think they are so different from her but as they sit isolated in their collective boredom they don’t realize they are all the same, lost in fleeting thoughts. The only difference is that she remains unaware of their frustration and therefore absolved of any type of embarrassment.

As the daughter looks up from her mobile, she sees reflected in the glass pane the sliding doors behind her yawn open and a nurse wheel in a trolley piled with boxes, small bowls and bottles. She stops just shy of the giant grey box of a television parked by the shelves of blockbusters and they start to line up; the decrepit somnambulists, each standing patiently awaiting medicating. Some stare at the daughter with watery eyes as she finds herself unable to look away, others stare into space with sagging chins while a few look eagerly at the nurse excited at the prospect of consuming drugs that might help pass the time.

The nurse doesn’t appear to expect their Grandmother to line up like the rest. Instead, she bustles over with a small metal tray pebble dashed with pink, blue and yellow pills in a variety of shapes and the family watch idly as frail fingers flail at the tray trying to capture them. Eventually, they submit and the fingers that resemble claws lift them to the slit like mouth where they are gobbled up. This is the only movement she makes all afternoon.

A movement in the clouds outside posts a weak shaft of sunlight through the window and this draws her son’s attention from his thumbs to hers. Crinkled like pale tissue paper, he finds himself musing on what those hands have touched. From wooden spoons heavy with strawberry jam in the summer;  soaking cuts on his knees with iodine; the wheel of their old brown Mini, bales of fabric in her shop; his late father’s hands. He wishes he could enjoy these afternoons more.

Shadows gradually creep along the skirting board, crawling up and enveloping the murmuring specters as they chew up softened medication, inhale the bleach from the cleaner’s mop in the corridor outside and wonder idly what will be served for supper.

The daughter notices that the time has come to move from this place and leave her alone again. With the most tenuous of emotions, the brother and sister say their farewells before hurtling outside into the twilight. His wife is more formal and places warm hands on her shoulders, pressing down as though there is an ‘on’ switch there that will spark her back into animation. It is left to him to tenderly kiss her furrowed forehead and stroke her silvery dry hair to say goodbye before he too retreats and heads back into the waiting arms of the Autumnal air outside.

Part ii:

What does she think about each day as she glazes over and vacantly fixates on the middle distance? If for a moment one could bend the laws of physicality and tune into her like an FM Radio, amongst the white noise and the fuzz there would be this:

The feel of leather against her sweaty palms; the glittering internal night sky of switches, buttons and dials; the smell of oil and before her the abyss illuminated only by two shocking shards of light that guide her through the thick clouds. She is a pilot and the thrill of it makes her tremble as the sky rushes past. This is the first time she has flown at night and she looks to her co-pilot sat beside her and she pauses to examine the deep lines around his eyes as he concentrates on the dashboard. The dim light of the cockpit makes his eyes seem like darkened pools and as he moves to look at the shard of red from the sunset to the right of him it is difficult to tell where his eyes stop and his hair begins. The thrill of it all overwhelms her and quickly she looks back and refocuses on what she has to do to quash the sudden desire she has to reach across and touch the hairs peeking out from the cuff of his shirt.

He is a friend of a friend and has agreed to take her up at night so she can practise. She has been jittery all week in anticipation of this evening knowing they will be alone together for a substantial amount of time and anxious that something might occur to prevent it happening. Now it is and she looks to her left  seemingly observing the slivers of light bouncing across the horizon but really her vision is looking at him in the reflection. She wonders if he can tell.

The fractured mirrors of her mind  mean she cannot piece together what happens next but in her mind are the next collection of photos, well-thumbed like a favoured photo album and greying with time…it’s not even clear to her whether these are real memories or ones formed by desire and wish fulfilment:

They’re entwined together. She re-visits the feelings of lust, joy and love; the snapshots of him lying on top of her damp and spent; him beckoning her over to sit with him on the sofa so they can read together; him imparting knowledge of topics she had never heard of before. She pulls each out of the recesses, mulling each one slowly and delicately, chewing it over and wistfully swallowing the sensations they bring. Cautiously, not to cause herself too much hurt, she thinks about the moment she fell for him…but also the moment she realised he didn’t feel that way for her and the crushing disappointment that brought. It’s a brief dalliance and after three weeks he has to leave for work reasons. They make promises to stay in touch…

A baby cries out for her and she sits alone, squatting on the floor by the bedroom door, her back up against the wall as tears cool her inflamed cheeks. He never called again. The friend who introduced them plays ignorant when she asks after him, hungry for information but always starved. It was a cruel trick to have been played out; her dark thoughts curse a God she doesn’t believe in for playing with her emotions so callously.

The memories expire as her thoughts are interrupted by the nurse with medication.

Strange how a short affair can stay with you for decades. The man is sealed in a block of ice in her mind – he never aged, he never developed faults, grey hair, a paunch or disgusting habits. In her frazzled mind he remains perfect and she thinks about him every day, seeing signs of his existence in the most mundane of items: a calendar denoting the month when they took the plane up, his name formed out of letters from her prescription, a scrabble word that sums up how she still feels about him, somebody who looks familiar on the television…

These are the thoughts that chase each other through her mind as her family sit beside her. Unaware and disinterested.

Posted on by nelsonandemma 2

Glass Eye

Apologies in advance for the language in this one!

Yeah I know it’s a cliché to be writing letters like this just before I exhale my last breath but I no longer give a shit. There’s some stuff you need to know. Not because you really need to but because I know that that lame arsed nosy bitch of a sister-in-law knows and is probably twitching at home just waiting for me to scuttle off my mortal coil finally so she can get that womble sized ass of hers out of the door as fast as that fucker Usain Bolt to tell you. So I better get in there first.

Here’s the thing. I fecking grew to hate your Ma during that last decade we were together. You had probably already figured that out. Maybe the shredded photos you found all over the carpet like a charity shop rug gave it away, or the punched hole in the garage door after I wanted to hit her so bad I had to take an aim at that instead – I was never that kind of man to hit a woman and you better not be either. Possibly it was the fact those fuckers at social services came round cos some knob end teacher of yours thought we were neglecting you cos your uniform looked a bit dirty. God I could have punched that woman straight in the face; right on the bump of that crone’s nose of hers for that. The only reason you smelled dear boy was cos you never freaking thought to wash unless we told you to and your Ma was too busy messing around with those losers down the club to notice clothes weren’t getting washed. And no it wasn’t my place to do it. I made the money. She made the house run. Or was supposed to. Lazy bitch couldn’t even do that right.

So yea, I guess I’m also writing this an apology. I’m sorry we were lame. I’m sorry we were always screaming at each other and basically forgot you were there. I hope this gets to you in time but I’m not even sure where to send this fucker to – I’m guessing you are still in the same home you ended up in 5 years ago? I’m not sure as I haven’t heard from you for awhile.  Your aunt’ll know though. Yea, she’ll know alright.

So anyway, back to the confessional. Not that I want you to think badly of her but basically your Ma was a whore. If it wasn’t that Dan she was hitching her skirts up for, it was Chris behind the bar, Gary who ran the chippie; I think she even boned the neighbor once and I swear to God he must’ve been about 50 or so at the time and she only in her early 30s.

I used to ask her why but all she would throw back in my face was that I ignored her. Spent too much time with my guys down the pub when I wasn’t working. Wasn’t giving her enough attention. Bull. If she’d made more effort I’d have been home every night but what kinda man wants to come home to a stinking cesspit of a home, a woman who smells of some cheap shit cider and who needs to wax her top lip;  a kid that needs its nappy changing and egg and chips on the table? Well, that fucker Gary clearly liked it and eventually it was Gary she left me for. Yea, so not only had you been taken off her hands but she kicked me out in all.

Thing is, Ben, I’ve never been the type to just walk away from a situation. I can’t do it and I sure in hell hope you’re like that too. So for six months I lived in this shitty little bedsit opposite my actual home. I could see what your Ma and Gary got up to through the window most times. She sure did look a lot happier and that twisted my guts to see. I noticed a bit of a swell to her belly and used to get all fired up at the thought of her having that prick’s baby – but turns out she was putting on the lard, you know what I mean? Some chicks do that when their happy. It’s like they feel they no longer need to make any effort. Just be aware of that Ben. Don’t ever let a girl think you’ve only got the eye for her; she’ll pack on the pounds faster than an addict shoots up.

Anyway, there was this one evening when I was mighty sore at the sight of them coming back late drunk. They couldn’t even wait to get in the front door before she’s pulling at his belt and spreading her legs for him…in the doorway! The freaking doorway!  I hope isn’t too shocking for you Ben but you need to hear it all. Anyway, I’d had a binge with the guys and like they say, that fecking red mist just come down on me all of a sudden. I pushed myself out of that tatty sofa your Gran gave us (you remember it? The one with that shit paisley pattern and covered in fag holes?) and stumbled down the stairs and into the street. I could hear her screaming before I even rolled the first punch but feck me it felt good.

I don’t really remember what I did except I woke up in hospital in cuffs and the fucking pigs all over me like ants. Anyway, you know what I did and I’m sorry, I really am but what’s mine is mine and that fucker Gary had no right, HAD NO RIGHT. She was mine; we hadn’t even got a fucking divorce or nothing. So it turned out, as you know, I did in Gary and your Ma followed him a few days later. The only good thing to come out of this situation, Ben was the fact they asked me if there was anything I wanted from home. So I asked for your Ma’s glass eye. You may not have known this but your Ma was blind on her left side and used this glass monstrosity for reasons of vanity. That thing freaked me out. I once came across it once in a glass in the bathroom. I wasn’t too happy about that Ben so I will admit to teaching your Ma a lesson about that. I only did that now and again when she needed reminding how things were meant to be in the house, you know?

They gave it to me in a box after her funeral. The daft pricks had wrapped it in tissue paper – like it was something precious and fragile! As soon as I got back to my cell, I remember taking out a teddy of yours I brought with me (it kinda smelled of you still…yeah I know…surprising) and ripped out one of the eyes and replaced with your Ma’s. It looked kind a freakish and all but did the trick.

Ben, you need to know that those bastards who keep me in here want to tell you what I used to do with that teddy but I think you need to hear it from me. Some nights I’d stick pencils up its butt and twist until the stuffing started to come out. Other times I scrub the fucking toilet bowl with it until the shit stains looked like a crap hair dye job. Other times they found me smashing it against the wall of my cell.

They want to give you the teddy when I go, but can you do me this one favour? Stick it in my coffin will you? I want to be cremated with that bitch and you.eye

I love you.

Dad

Posted on by nelsonandemma 0

Martha and the Chemical Rain

Many moons ago, when my parents would come and visit me at university the first time around, they would refuse to use the bathroom in my student house citing how unhygienic it was (student bathroom? Dirty? No!) This little story was inspired by their distaste for all things student…

For my Parents

Martha ignored the looks and tuts as she pushed through the crowd to reach her friend Carrie who was near the front.

‘What have they got for us today Carrie?’ She asked trying to peer over the head of Carrie’s husband.

‘Just Brown today I’m afraid although there was a little bit of Green earlier but that went quick as usual’

Martha sighed. As they inched forward to get their rations from the official at the Rim she pondered over what a struggle life was. She mindlessly thought about how futile things were and how repetitive their days seemed. Every day was the same. Wake up, wave off Richard as he went to work at the Steel Bridge and then walk to the Rim to try and pick up some food for the evening; all the while grieving for her lost children and all of this under the constant threat of Chemical Rain.

Chemical Rain – one of the many blights that made life so difficult. Everyone knew the drill; they got taught it from the first day at school – it was mandatory. The Chemical Rain could strike at any moment but there were clues you could look at for that it was going to happen. It was usually heralded by the sound of clattering in the sky and then the world above would turn either yellow, black or blue depending on the strength of the Chemical and then it would arrive: great drops of foul smelling thick liquid that killed everything and anything in its path. All of them knew that at the first sound of clatter they had to disperse and take cover – usually the Steel Bridge was the safest place but on that day Martha had left her kids at home while she went out to get the day’s ration and hadn’t been able to get back in time when the clatter came. It had been a horrible decision to make; risk going back and taking the kids and almost certainly dying with them or leave them to their fate and head to the Bridge. So she had made her mind up and headed to where her husband, friends and neighbours were gathering on the shiny platform that overlooked the Rim. She could always have more kids. She knew it sounded callous but she also knew she wasn’t alone in having had to make that decision – there wasn’t a soul in their community who didn’t know somebody who had not had to make the same decision she had had to and so she wasn’t vilified for it…she just had to deal with her gnawing sense of guilt.

Pushing these thoughts to the back of her mind, Martha arrived at the edge of the Rim. As always she was struck by the sheer size and beauty of it. Even though the official was talking to her as he arranged for her rations to be handed out, she had half an eye on the landscape that engulfed his tiny frame. Hundreds of feet of white dropped down to the cavern below to where the Central Lake lay still. It looked cloudy today and there were marks of grey and black starting to speckle the bottom. The community had long ago worked out that the murkier the water was the more chance there would be of Chemical Rain. Every day there were regular clouds and thunder that deposited food into the lake and this was always followed by the waterfall. The waterfall was spectacular. Thousands of cubic metres of water rushing from the cave just from beneath the Rim. It made a tremendous noise but the spray also gave the children something fun to frolic in whilst young lovers would stop and hold each other admiring the size and ferociousness of the foaming water as it gushed into the Lake. And then as soon as it started it would end and everyone would go back to their normal routines.  Such was the climate that their community was governed by. Martha played with her bottom lip thoughtfully wondering how long it would be until they have to run for cover this time and whether she ought to stay close to the bridge – she had a feeling it would be today. As she picked up her rations she headed over to the Monument of Thankfulness to pay her respects to those in the community who risked their lives daily traversing the Rim in order to glean the riches from the Lake, their only source of nourishment. It was fraught with danger because there was usually only a short period of time between food becoming available and the waterfall starting. Those that chose to do this for a living were looked after extremely well by the officials as of course, if you got caught by the waterfall,  that was the end. The Monument was covered in the names of those who had sacrificed their lives so that the community could live and it was law that once you had collected your rations, you paid your respects before going home.

As Martha headed back she sensed it before it actually began. The clatter. It was quite quiet and in the distance but grew discernibly louder very quickly. As usual it was pandemonium. Children started crying as their mothers swept them up in their arms and began scurrying towards the Steel Bridge. Martha turned on her heel and followed the crowd but as always it was a bottle neck. The officials had to tried to solve the problem by opening up new routes to the bridge but there were thousands of them trying to get to the same place. Normally Martha was able to squeeze her way past and wave at her husband who knew officals who were able to lift her up out the crowd and deposit her safely on the bridge. However, she couldn’t see him and as the seconds ticked by a knot of fear began squeezing her. In a panic she darted farther right hoping that most people would have gone to the main pathway by the Rim but the farthest path was full of schoolchildren being led up by their teachers. She was dithering when the darkness fell. Martha and the rest of her community stopped instinctively and looked up. It was black today – the deadliest of all. Martha watched in horror overcome with the fumes before the liquid fell. In the few moments before she was obliterated Martha surprised herself by smiling. She was going to see her children again.

Above the Rim and the Chemical Rain Mrs. Wainwright twisted the cap back on the black anti-humptylimescale Domestos bottle and placed it back behind the drain.

‘Richard! Your toilet was a disgrace as usual! No wonder your father refuses to use the bathroom when he visits you.’

And with that Mrs. Wainwright bustled out slamming the door behind her.

Posted on by nelsonandemma 0

A Taste for Murder

SKELETON 1

I originally wrote this for a website that was being set up in Ho Chi Minh called ‘Sonder’. The website never seemed to get going and my story got ripped to shreds by the editor Brad but he did make some good points. So here is the story that was going to get published in all its post-Brad glory…

Grainy. Blurred. Too far away for details. But definitely, unequivocally, him. Racking my brains to think of when I last saw him, I finally remembered the day we picked up our A Level results. His, of course, had been four straight As (no A*s in those days), and a stellar future awaited him outside the school gates. I stood beside him picking open my envelope, dreading it really because I knew my results couldn’t possibly be as good as his and of course they weren’t. Three Bs which was fine but somewhat ‘ploddy’ as my father used to say. For some reason he always liked hanging out with me. I used to think it was because I made him feel better about himself, but now I laugh at the thought. He had been brilliant at everything he turned his hand to. What would he have gained from hanging out with a scrawny, pretty average sixteen year old like me? So I had gone along with it and for the time we’d been at school, I recall being fairly happy at being in his shadow…a little in awe of him, too. Of course, on that day, we went our separate ways at the gate; him towards Cambridge and eventually a career in law and myself towards a less than impressive establishment and then teaching.

Twenty years ago to the day.

I considered writing him, but every time I picked up a pen and letter paper (no emails then!) I thought better of it. He was at Cambridge, socialising with the best minds from the best families; what could I offer him now if I never offered him anything at all?

Picking up the Sunday Paper that bore his face on the front page, I paid and meandered slowly home, the weight of the paper heavy in my back pocket. So apparently he had been arrested the night before. For Murder. Was pleading guilty. ‘Deranged,’ according to one doctor. His terribly fashionable East London flat had been described as ‘a ghastly scene of dead bodies, body parts and blood.’  Was this the boy I watched come first in the 100m sprint on Sports Day? The boy who expertly dissected a frog in Biology (oh how grisly a memory that seemed now) and then in the same day held a charity ball in the sixth form that raised hundreds of pounds for a local hospital? As my gaze fell to the wind outside, I toyed with a fallen leaf in wonder. What must happen to a person to turn them from promising young child prodigy to heinous serial killer? What horrific things had befallen my friend to make him become this way?

Over the weeks and months that followed, his trial was screened in bars, pubs and covered the newspapers and TV headlines. I felt like I became reacquainted with my friend virtually. Eventually I admitted to myself that he had indeed caused pain and suffering to hundreds of people and didn’t appear to regret it at all. My curiosity aroused, I decided to finally make contact with him.

Having never moved in criminal circles, I wasn’t sure what to expect from the secure unit he was held in. It had been an epic task to even arrange the visit, such was his notoriety by that point, but manage it I did. Standing outside the austere high-security Ashworth Hospital in Merseyside I felt as though I were the prisoner and immediately assumed a confusing mantle of guilt, which set me wondering if prisoners themselves ever felt that way.

Walking through countless stark white corridors, the smell of ammonia was thick in my nostrils, to the point I wanted to gag. I hadn’t really been nervous about meeting him again until I found myself in that desolate place of lost souls shouting and moaning behind locked doors, and when they told me the final door directly ahead was truly the only thing between me and the man responsible for not only murdering but consuming countless animals and people…I fought the urge to turn heel and walk away.

“How are you?”

We were in a cramped room ostensibly designed to suggest alienation, however I was conscious of a thousand eyes and ears monitoring our every move via secret means. A thick pane of reinforced glass prevented us from speaking face to face properly, yet his image appeared clearly none-the-less.

“It’s been so long.”

I was unable to speak. He was mesmorising. His blue eyes were so bright and alert and in such contrast with the white clothes the nurses had dressed him in; when he smiled, his eyes crinkled and made him look so friendly. So harmless. He still had the charisma and charm that had made him irresistible as a young boy, and I fell for it all over again. I started as he moved forward to take a closer look at me. I was appalled by his eyes. What had they seen?

Limited time meant I had to find my voice and start talking if I was to ever find out what had happened to him. There was no room for pointless small talk and false niceties. So I asked him straight out. The narrative that followed was told me in as earnest a voice as one could hope for given the nature of what he was conveying, and often he would rise gracefully from his chair as he mulled over what next to disclose, sometimes picking at the paintwork in the wall, sometimes staring out to space.

“Dear friend, I do not expect you to believe all that I am about to tell you, nor am I justifying the terrible things that I have done, for that they are, but addiction too is an abhorrent predicament and I was addicted to the means of capturing a person and savouring them. It’s a powerful drug…the knowledge that once you have crossed the line between honouring the sanctity of life and destroying it, you no longer care. You’ve done it once: It can be done again, and again. Your soul is already lost.

“You may recall that when we were eight years old I was like you and, please do not take offence, I was like you in that I was average at everything. I possessed a good brain but not one that would ever make me stand out. By the time I turned nine however, my grades and reports in general were reflective of someone with an IQ and emotional intelligence far higher than the one I had originally been born with. How had I managed this? I’ll tell you.

“One weekend, my father was at home after having been away in the Lake District for work. He had brought with him venison. The meal that evening was celebratory as my father had been away for a long time; my mother was delighted to have him back and I, having never tasted venison before, was taken with the richness of the meat. You are probably wondering why I’m telling you this. I’m telling you because this was the start of it all. The following day was sports day and as usual I had to run the 100 meter sprint, something I had been dreading, as usually I came either close to the end or was the end itself. That day as I ran I remember feeling as though my legs were not my own, they seemed possessed of a natural speed and agility I had never experienced before. I came first and hadn’t even really tried! The adulation that followed made me giddy, my friend, giddy. My peers were in awe, and my House won…truly it was a wonderful day for me. As I lay in bed that night I tried to figure out what had changed, and the notion occurred that it had something to do with the deer I had consumed. I decided to experiment with my hypothesis the following morning, which was a Saturday.

“I woke up before dawn and crept downstairs before heading out into the garden. It took me a while but eventually I came across a mouse cowering in my mother’s herb garden. Grabbing an empty plant pot, I quickly placed it over the mouse, trapping it, enabling me to slip a tile beneath so I could carry the creature back into the kitchen. I knew I had to be quick so I decided to boil it first before popping it under the grill. The mouse tasted bitter and there had only been a shred of meat on its mangy bones, but I could barely contain my excitement to see if anything would happen to me the next day. Sure enough, when I awoke on Sunday morning—I never had such a keen sense of smell. The stench of life around me nearly made me vomit. My bedsheets which the day before had smelled so fresh now stank of stale boy; on the landing I could only inhale my father’s cigars and sweat whilst my mother’s perfume brought on a migraine. Although ill with the assault on my olfactory senses, and forced to lie in bed most of the day, can you imagine the thrill of discovering the secret of how to enhance your natural abilities simply by eating the flesh of one that had the preferred endowments?

“Maybe I should have been more afraid but from then on, at least once a month I would kill an animal and enjoy the feeling of being slowly refined and sculpted into something better. The length of time the effects lasted varied from animal to animal. The larger the animal, the longer the duration.  Soon, like any addict, I was hooked. It was intoxicating to have found an easy way to become brilliant. My family was happy, for I performed better academically, but of course, like so many things, it soon wasn’t enough, so I sought stronger and better means of transforming myself.  In a year I went from murdering small rodents and insects to pets (to this day our then next door neighbour has no idea that it was I that killed his pet cat, Ed, and buried his remains by his front door—a delicious irony I found quite funny for many years after) to larger animals and, eventually…humans.”

At this point he stopped and looked at me without expression. I didn’t want to catch his eye, so I picked at the skin around my thumb nail. I asked him how the transition between animal and human had been made. Turning his back to me, he laid his hands against the wall and leaned his face against the brick work closing his eyes as he remembered.

“Shortly after my 17th birthday I had an argument with a girl I was seeing at the time. You might remember her…Elise?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t suppose you would, she attended the Girls’ Grammar School across town and she was naturally brilliant. The type who could do anything. I so badly wanted to impress her, and for her to want me the way I wanted her. But when we argued, she implied that I wasn’t good enough for her! ME! With all of this newly enhanced prowess! I was so incensed I remember getting into my brother’s car in a foul rage, driving too fast and for too long out of town and off into the countryside. I was out of control, but I just could not stop myself swerving around the lanes, nearly veering into hedgerows as it was gone midnight.

“I felt like I wanted to kill myself, or destroy something, anything, and then I came around a blind corner and smacked straight into a man who had been walking back from the pub in the village. BAM! Just like that. I was so shocked I remember sitting in the car for ages in the pitch black looking at the darkened figure slumped in the road ahead of me, his grey hair lit up by the moon. Eventually I calmed down and then, like a trickle of poison, the thought crept into my mind that I could use this as an opportunity to see if the same principles that applied to animals applied to humans.

“Without truly thinking, I got out the car and dragged the man back and into the passenger seat. I didn’t really know what to do with him but eventually decided to head towards the fields where you and I had sometimes gone wild camping in the summer. It was easy enough to build a fire and, although my pocket knife wasn’t particularly sharp, I was still able to cut off his ear and roast it. The fact that I went on to kill many more people should prove to you my theory’s veracity. That man had a wonderfully keen sense of hearing. The next day I was able to differentiate between birdsongs for the first time in my life.”

“But how did you get away with it for so long though? How do you dispose of a body if you don’t eat all of it?” I asked, incredulous.

“There are two things you need to know. One, the natural cycle and order of life ensured that anything I didn’t eat and left out in the countryside would eventually be eaten by other animals or simply decompose. Second, you have to remember that I had the most wonderful façade. I was a lawyer with a first class Cambridge degree. By all accounts respectable, intelligent and with all my mental faculties in place. There would have been nothing to suspect. The only reason we are here today having this conversation is because I became blasé. The last victim escaped. Most unfortunate. She would have been better surely to have died but as it is I had only partially eaten her and she will have to live the rest of her days with the marks of my canines around her thigh…but that was her choice.”

Our time together was drawing to a close. I could see in the reflection of the security pane the guard peering through the glass panel of the door behind me.

“I don’t believe you.” I blurted out as I started to get up. “It’s all too convenient isn’t it?” Suddenly I was enraged at how easily he had clearly decided to plead insanity in order to avoid getting the judicial punishment he deserved. “You’re not insane, you couldn’t possibly gain powers from eating a person or an animal, otherwise we would all be super humans simply from buying food down at the supermarket! You are nothing but a cold blooded murderer!”

Ceasing to shout, I stood facing him as he stood facing me. There was a momentary silence and then he said softly:

“Last week, dear friend, I dined on Owl.”

The guard flung open the door as I backed away horrified at the sight of his head and neck slowly, and without expression, twisting around three-hundred sixty degrees.

Shaken, I left him there to his fate.

Posted on by nelsonandemma 0

Lemonade

shoes    I think it was my English teacher who told us once that ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them.’ Well, I don’t know about you but I would certainly categorise myself as the second. Which, rather ironically some might say, is why I’m now at this woeful comprehensive school in Northolt, Greater London and not the London Oratory where I embodied greatness…and then promptly lost it.

I can pinpoint exactly what caused this downfall akin to Caesar’s. Lemonade. Bloody lemonade. That saccharine honey dew melon coloured liquid. Nectar of the Gods. Obligatory at parties attended by over excited five year olds. I loved lemonade and for a time it loved me too. It was my business teacher, Miss. Braithwaite who first mooted the idea to my class about a project where we would be in competition with each other – not just to see who made the most money but who had the best business model, the best product and finally, the best marketing strategy. Those who were successful would be rewarded with no homework for a half term and voucher to spend at the local sweet shop. We were twelve and I immediately decided that lemonade would be the answer to the prize.

As was to be expected, people immediately threw themselves at their friends to make their groups; no thought was given to whether those people would actually be useful or make a success of it. At twelve, I already prided myself on the fact I never let my emotions get the better of me, preferring to use logic instead. So when my so called best friend John gleefully headed my way, his freckles attempting to shine through his already pimply skin – he was given short shrift. I have no idea if he looked hurt or not as I sidled my way through the tables and chairs but my thought was on one person only: Mick ‘The Almighty’ Johnson; so called for the size of his johnson which, already at the age of twelve, had the boys in the locker room green with envy. However, the epithet wasn’t just about that – it was like a metaphor for his character too – that boy was magnetic. He oozed charisma and confidence. Girls and boys listened to his opinions. Adults loved him. This was the boy, I had decided 5 minutes previously, who would help my lemonade stand march us deftly to the sweet shop and nights and weekends of freedom.

Fortunately, for me, Mick also knew a good thing when he saw it and as our eyes locked we didn’t even need to nod in acknowledgement; we just sat down, got out our pencil cases and settled to work whilst all around us people were laughing and giggling and generally, as usual, not taking life and work seriously.

Mick agreed that lemonade would be a winner. The summer term was proving humid and lunchtimes long and tedious with football games rewarded with only measly water from the communal fountain (I have never been a fan of those things and also ensured I had a disinfectant wipe handy if I got caught out and needed to use one) so to offer hot and thirsty youngsters cool glasses of lemonade would certainly secure us the prize but as I pointed out to Mick, the lemonade needed to be special – not that 7UP crap, more the ‘old fashioned’ style you could get in Waitrose.

We parted ways at the end of that lesson with not just a business plan but a fire in our bellies and ambition growing rapidly like a virus. I remember the frission of that first night all too well. Latin and R.E. homework was due the next day but I decided to forego it and sit the inevitable detention because I had greater things to focus on – namely a new formula of Lemonade. I’ve always had a flair for science so after firing up my laptop I spent a few hours looking at recipes and thinking about the chemical compounds that would work best. My dad worked in a bank and was never home until late so playing on his career parent guilt I asked for money to buy the ingredients I would need and he handed it over without question, not even looking up from his ‘The Telegraph’ as he sat slumped on the sofa, his suit crumpled and his shoes in disarray beside him.

I won’t go into the details as that would be dull but let’s just say that what followed was one of the most anti-social and delightful weekends of my life. I hid myself away in the garage and within two days had the essence of a new strain of Lemonade. It was delicious. It was refreshing. It was addictive. Mick ‘the almighty’ Johnson thought so too when I walked round the block with just a cup containing the fruit of my endeavours to let him try it. I remember him standing on the steps leading up to his front door savouring his mouthful and swirling it around his mouth like a sommelier before gulping it down.

‘Awesome’ was all he could utter before he was called back inside to wash the dog.

That was all the praise I needed. If Mick liked it, everyone would.

Monday lunchtime could not come around quick enough. Mick and I were first to the playground in order to secure our pitch by the football field and tennis courts. My sister had done a fine job creating our stand (shaped like a lemon no less) and Mick and I had changed into suitably sunshine coloured attire. Our first customer was Melanie. Or Melanie Smellanie as she was known for her inability to realize her teeth were caked in tartar and needed a good scrub. If anyone needed a pick-me-up laced with natural acid, it was Melanie.

‘How much?’ the buck toothed wench enquired.

‘80p’ was the reply.

Silver was exchanged and Melanie supped on the fruits of my weekend. Her facial expressions seemed to go through a myriad of emotions: surprise, delight and finally…relaxation as her thirst was quenched and her senses revived by the copious amounts of sugar she had just ingested.

‘Give me another 3’ she demanded.

Her request met, she sloped away towards the dingy doors that led to the girls’ toilets and we watched as she gave it to her friends; who in turn were clearly happy with the purchase as they too came up, followed by a couple of hapless boys from two years below who clearly didn’t know better than to have a crush on the three most grotesque girls in the school.

Word soon spread and by day three, our stall was swamped with youngsters vying for a taste of my luscious lemonade. The other students in our business studies class would stand glumly by their stalls selling terrible bars of soap or dry muffins to maybe one or two customers if they were lucky. As I expected, Mick and I won the task and were rewarded by being called up to the front of the classroom to receive our sweet shop vouchers and to be informed that we were not expected to hand in any homework for the rest of the term (never mind that was only two weeks). Our success wasn’t exactly met with rapturous applause by the others in the group but the rhythm seemed to match our steps as we slowly made our way back to our desks inspecting the glittering ticket to sugar joy.

The only thing was, I had kind of enjoyed selling the lemonade…and the proceeds it brought us. The task was over but the demand was not. Mick and I took to opening up a bootlegger’s business in one of the toilet stalls in the boys’ toilets – the ones in the PE block, furthest away from the staffroom and prying snooping eyes. As long as a student brought their own bottle we were happy to fill it with the lemon juice as it meant we could continue undetected.

Those were heady days bringing with them the richness of success and popularity but like so many things that one eventually equates to positive feelings, I became addicted to selling the lemonade. It got to me. The power, the monopoly of break and lunchtimes. I became a demon – always after the end result – trying to make it better, particularly when it seemed demand began to dry up as the summer dissolved slowly into Autumn and eventually the frozen wastes of winter. It was at this point I began to play around with my chemical compounds and devised a new form of Lemonade – one that heated up upon the consumer swallowing it and the liquid touching the inside of their throat. It meant people got the refreshing hit of lemons…and the warmth that made it appealing in the chilly breaktimes spent out in the granite netherland of the playground.

Business picked up and both Mick and I enjoyed the money it brought us. We were the envy of our schoolmates, always having the latest phones, trainers and clothes.

But then, as with so many things, our success came to grinding halt in the middle of March. Teachers began to complain openly that the school smelled strongly of lemons – which, although pleasantly welcome after a decade of bleach and B.O. seemed out of place and inexplicable. Then, the local papers seemed to be full of letters from residents complaining that the streetlights weren’t being turned off at night as a strange glow was keeping them awake during the hours of what was meant to be darkness. The council in turn retorted that that wasn’t the case and residents simply needed to buy black-out curtains. Tensions about strange smells and lights continued to escalate slowly for a few weeks until the day Mick ‘the almighty’ Johnson took his dog out for a walk and noticed that when Dave, as he was affectionately known as, marked his territory on trees, the urine appeared to glow ever so slightly. After returning from this particular walk in the park, Mick discovered an empty bottle of lemonade in the garage and realized Dave had drunk it all. That was also the night that Polly Barnes from year 8 got up to visit the toilet at 3am and happened to look at her reflection in the darkened mirror as she settled down onto the toilet seat. Her ensuing screams promptly brought her worried parents scampering out of bed and to their daughter’s aid only to be met with an unholy apparition of what looked to be a glowing effigy having a wee on their brand new toilet.

It quickly transpired that all those who had a lemonade habit of more than 3 drinks a week had in fact started to glow in the dark. We might have got away with it if the International Space Station hadn’t picked up the fact Harrow seemed to glow particularly brightly at night – and then some idiot scientist told the Daily Mail.

The irony wasn’t lost on me as the bitterness of my classmates spewed forth. I watched through slitted eyes and gritted teeth as I left school during those ensuing weeks when one or two of them would be pulled aside to chat to a journalist who eagerly wanted to know how he or she could get their hands on this infamous lemonade, knowing they were no doubt saying all kinds of lies just to get their names in the papers. Of course everyone knew it was me and Mick at the bottom of it all but because the stuff hadn’t been condemned as poisonous nobody could do anything about it. Except the Headteacher who called us in one Friday afternoon.

‘That lemonade is an abberation’ was how he started his tirade. We were warned never to sell it again on school grounds…on pain of exclusion. This was enough to put Mick off having anything more to do with it and I was certainly happy to stop selling it at my private school as I had discovered a new market. Teenagers from the Norwood Estate.lemonade

Never under estimate the lengths some teens will go to for a laugh. I made more in those weeks after my lemonade hit the headlines than at any other point as those over fourteen years of age would dare each other to drink 10 in an evening and then run out in front of cars to scare people or stand in cemeteries pretending to be ghosts. But then, as is always the way, their behavior got out of hand.  Somebody drowned whilst drunk on vodka and lemonade pretending to be a light house and then falling off a cliff and then a group of skinny dipping teens aiming to impersonate bioluminescence were swept away by a rip tide.

There was no escape from those last two. As soon as I saw the stories on BBC Newsnight, I knew that at the tender age of 12 ½ my foray into the world of entrepreneurial business was over. And as I suspected, come the Monday morning after the news of the deaths broke, I was summoned to the Headteacher’s office one last time.

There was no explanation that could help me now. I was told to see out the term and leave the London Oratory for good.

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