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This is my daily writing book. The idea being to write at least 500 words a day. Come one! |
| I've no idea what will appear here until it comes onto the page. I won't be editing as its just free writing, trying to get myself back into the habit of writing every day in the hope that I'll re-start my novel. |
| Jeremy wanted to have some fun. Not the usual nerdish fun he had, collecting things, cataloguing things cleaning and ordering his things. He liked that, loved it sometimes, found it wonderfully calming and soothing to see things all lined up, especially when he located a missing piece, No 6 in a set of 22 had been the last missing piece in a set – the cigarette cards from John Stuyvesant’s from 1962-64. Wonderful photos from the times and it was glorious to have them all now. In fact, sometimes he thought it was better to have them than to actually look at them. After all didn’t want to mess them up did he. Grubby little fingers all over them, especially those mint condition, never opened, he couldn’t possibly open them. It had given him a lot of pleasure over the years, his collecting, but in the last few weeks and months he just didn’t seem to get the same sort of pleasure from it. He started to think, with an anxious twist of the stomach, that maybe, maybe, he was growing out of it. Hats what his Mum had always said t hi Dad when he’d berated him, called him a sissy. Said he should be doing something more manly, like climbing trees or playing football. He’ll grow out of it love. But he hadn’t and his Dad had had to put up with having a cissy son for the rest of his life, which hadn’t been that long. He’d died at 64, when Jeremy was only 11. He felt relieved when he died and his Mum never once told him he shouldn’t collect things after that. Even helped him, asking him what he wanted for his Birthday so he could get something he really wanted rather than something she thought he wanted. He didn’t have the chance to get fed up with living at home with his Mum. He was starting to get a little annoyed with her for insisting on what he ate and when he ate it, but apart from that it was very nice arrangement. A big old house, just the two of them and al his meals cooked, his clothes cleaned and ironed and someone to watch the old films they both liked with in the evenings, sometimes the afternoons, on a Sunday. They would often watch two on Sundays and as a special treat his Mum would make his favourite Apple crumble and ice cream. When he was 18 though, she died too; run over by a bus. Apparently her head had been crushed, he’d heard one of the nurses say it in the hospital when they thought he couldn’t hear. He was old enough to live on his own so he didn’t get any visits from the Social services and he didn’t have to worry about relatives popping in, that never happened. For the last 3 years he’d been on his own and although he missed his Mum, especially on Sundays, he quite liked being on his own. He had converted her bedroom to another collection room and now had 2 of them, full up. All perfect and immaculate. It seemed perfect and he’d even started to make a bit of money to supplement the money from his Mum’s life insurance. She’d told him about it when his dad died. Said she didn’t want him to struggle, just in case anything happened. SO he was OK and cold even afford to have al hi clothes cleaned and ironed at the laundry and a woman came and cleaned the house once a week. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| The singing was bad enough but when the trumpets started he decided he’d have to get up and try and shut them up. He leaned out of the window and looked around, trying to locate the source. It seemed to be coming from out in the woods, though he couldn’t see anything. He decided to go down there and remonstrate rather than shouting from his window and risk waking his Grandmother. He dressed quickly not bothering to find clean clothes, just putting on those he’d thrown own last night. The sun was just rising but it as very early and he was furious that he’d been woken. He struggled to sleep and needed it more than ever today with the competition. As he neared the woods he heard laughter and clapping and realised there must be an audience. He slowed down as he approached them and listened to what they were saying. The music had stopped for now. It was then that he recognised one fo the voce, it was Harold, his brother. He’d not seen him since he went to Russia and he knew straight away that this was his way of saying hello, I’m back. As he came upon them, as expected Harold was standing facing him and waiting with a huge smile on his face. ‘Took your time brother.’ ‘I was asleep you bugger.’ ‘Not now eh?’ You need to get up earlier Federico, this is the best time of the day you know?’ They embraced and Federico held his brothers head in his hands and looked him in the eye. ‘Why are you here?’ ‘Nice greeting.’ ‘You know what I mean. I thought you’d be on your way with the President now. Has anything happened?’ ‘No, no. Everything’s fine. I’ve got some time off that’s all. I wanted to come and see you and the family before I go. Federico was suspicious. Harold had never been sentimental and often seemed to be completely oblivious to others feelings. Not deliberately but nevertheless. The idea of him coming back like this seemed unusual to say the least. He knew he wouldn’t’ be able to get a any more out of him at the moment though. ‘Come, lets go and eat, bring your friends, we’ll find food.’ ‘NO no. They’re not staying are you?’ As he said this, the crowd and the trumpet players began to move off into the woods waving as they left. ‘Who are they anyway?’ ‘I hired them, from the Town. They do special occasions weddings birthdays, homecomings at the crack of dawn, that sort of thing.’ Federico whacked his brother on the back then pulled him towards the house. They walked hand in hand, Harold talking about Russia, the women and the food, Federico asking more and more questions. When they reached the house they heard someone in the kitchen. As they walked in their Grandmother was making pancakes and there was an enormous pot of coffee on the table. ‘Grandmother?’ said Federico. ‘What are you doing up? You knew about this didn’t you?’ He looked at Harold who was grinning. ‘Of course dear, ‘ said his Grandmother. ‘You don’t think Harold would dare do something like this without telling me do you?’ ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Each time the car went over a bump he banged his head on the boot lid and felt the tools digging in to his back. He’d hoped it would only be a short journey but, so far, it had been at least 30 minutes, last time he checked his watch. Freddie and Jake would be laughing and probably thought they’d won already. He wasn’t going to give in though. He could still make it back in time, as soon as they stopped and he heard the fat bastard that was driving, get out, he’d make his move. The bet was, ride in the boot, then steal the car and get it back to Freddie’s in the garage, door down before midnight. He had an hour. It sounded for the last 10 minutes like they were on a motorway, must be the ring road or could be the M2, he hoped not though. If it was the M2 it may be he was going to London, which would take at least an hour, maybe more. Then he’d lose the bet. Freddie, the little shit, had made it back last night with 2 hours to spare, but it was a nothing car, a Mondeo. No challenge. Freddie looked pissed off when he’d told him, said he should show him, if he thought he could do better. He thought he could, but there had to be something in it for him. That was the challenge, back by midnight and then he would get a cut. He tried for 50-50 but Freddie just laughed, said his Uncle would beat the shit out of them all if he asked for that much. He had to settle for 10%. Still, on this kind of car, a Merc, that would be a good earn. Freddie had the key and he didn’t have to wait long for a decent car to show up. The secret was speed. The alarm didn’t matter. They were always going off. As expected, they guy came out, saw no one in the car, obviously didn’t check the boot, who would, pressed his remote key a couple of times to stop the alarm, then back to the shop. A pillow or something soft was his main regret, that and the fact that this bastard seemed to be driving a long old way. Ten minutes later he made a phone call. ‘You ready? I’ll be there in about 5 minutes.’ Then the car started to slow down. He could tell when it pulled off the motorway and after that made a series of turns before slowing right down and driving over some rough gravelly terrain, before stopping. He made himself ready, he’d worked out how to open the catch ages ago. Instead of getting out though ‘fatty’ must have wound down the window. ‘Oi, John, over here!’ ‘Evening Mr Derwent.’ ‘It’s done then?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Any problems? ‘No, none.’ ‘Sure? You sure no one saw you?’ ‘Absolutely.’ ‘Good, stick it in the boot then and we can get this over and done with.’ ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
She didn’t know it yesterday and this morning she still wasn’t sure, but when she saw him walking towards her along the platform she knew it. His hair was flapping around and he pushed it back the way he always did, holding his hand in it for a moment before releasing it. It always fell straight back down flopping over his face. As he got closer he tossed his head from side to side moving the hair unsuccessfully away from his face. She knew he’d be chewing he always chewed gum though it hadn’t improved his breath much last time she got close enough to notice. It had been at the meeting, last week, he was waiting outside when she came out and he pulled her into the alley moving right up close so his nose almost touched hers. She felt the heat of his breath on her face and smelt his stale tobacco tainted breath. Small sprays of spittle flecked her face as he emphasised his words, insisting, threatening until she’d agreed to meet him. She was frightened, no question, but something else too, a new feeling for her – determination, absolute steel resolve. She would not let him win. She would not let him walk away from this without any consequences. Only when she saw him step off the train and swagger towards her did she decide what she would do. He reached her quickly and without stopping walked past her nodding his head for her to follow. She knew where they were going, the old Grafton place, it was boarded up and disused but she knew he took people there. Everyone knew, but no one said anything obviously, not to him. When they got there he went round the back looking round to make sure she followed. He climbed up onto the lower windowsill and put his hand through a small hole in the wooden boarding, unhooking it and sliding it to one side. He held out a hand to lift her up and she noticed how hot and fat his hands were, huge too, engulfing her small hand. He had to jump down into the room and immediately noticed the stench of something rotting. She saw the stains, dark and splattered on the floor and the wall at the back and lost a bit of her nerve. She heard him jump down into the room and turned sharply as he re-fixed the window cover, which left the room in virtual darkness, only a few chinks of light slipping through from the other rooms and from a hole in the board. He stood there, just looking at her then and a sneer grew on his face and his fat hands unfurled by his side. His eyes, still obscured by the wayward hair, seemed narrow and animal like. They flickered over her, starting at her face, lingering on her breasts, down slowly across her midriff and then licked across her bare legs before flicking straight up again to fix onto her yes. She tried not to look away, staring defiantly, but when this produced a smile and a step in her direction she turned her head to the door, watching him now, carefully from the corner of her eye. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Galbraith thought it was a bit of a dry affair, and a little square too frankly. I mean, where are the girls, where is the hooch and what on earth is the point of those weird absurd representations of the 70’s that the hosts were wearing n a most uncomfortable and ostentatious fashion. He thought it was pretty damn awful when he’d arrived a couple of hours ago but it had got worse, starting with the arrival of that old fart from his old school, Sir Digby Hefter, who immediately advanced to the centre of the room and proceeded to hold forth on all manner of boring and irritating subjects in such a loud voice that no matter how much he tried to drown him out and pretend he didn’t exist, much like he used to in school assembly, the bastard’s rolling grumbling garrulous tones pierced his defences and grated and harried and worried away at him so that it was actually easier to turn and listen to him than try not to. Then it was really just a matter of nodding and hoping to Christ that the old fart would forget his lines and leave the room in a shamed rush as the continued onset of the dementia that Galbraith hoped was rather far along, became apparent to the whole room. Of course this didn’t happen and he clearly wasn’t demented at all but had an astonishing and stultifying memory for the most infinitesimal and mind numbingly small and insignificant detail, which he appeared to find it his solemn duty to recount to the all and sundry at the top of his ruddy voice! So that took care of the first hideous hour and a half. The next 30 minutes or so was different in one sense, there was no one to listen to or insist on his attention, nor was there anyone in the least bit interesting, stimulating or demonstrating even a hint of a possibility that they may be able to talk to him or even listen to him and respond in a way that kept him awake or stopped him pondering on the variety of ways that he could get out of this hideous situation. Most of them were quite extreme and included diving from the window to the courtyard several stories below, kicking the gas pipe off the wall then locking them all in their and throwing a lighted match through the door as he left. Taking one of the African spears proudly displayed around the walls along with the specimens of animals heads, and slowly skewering each and everyone in the room taking his time to get round to the last few stragglers just to see how they reacted, whether or not anyone fought back or anyone actually really did shit themselves as he approached to kill them. These thoughts had free roam in the empty void of social ineptitude which had now reigned this disgusting kingdom for 42 and half minutes. Soon, he though I must act, either to end the silence, end the painful discomfort of the company and their imbecilic incapability to engage him in any kind of conversation, or just leave and put up with the fact that he’d be blackballed from the club for failing to fulfil this cruel forfeit. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| All he could see was fear. All he could think about was that everything was difficult, or scary or hideous or shitty or likely to be disappointing. Monday morning was often , like this but this Monday seemed extra difficult. He lay awake at 3 in the morning the night before wondering if he could bear to go or cold bear to NOT go and just stay at home hiding. Lately though he’d realised there was nowhere to hide and it left him feeling more and more exposed and more and more threatened by the world and all of its hideous challenges. He half slept from 4 to 6 before waking before the alarm and deciding to get up, just because he couldn’t imagine anything good would come of staying there any longer. During the half sleep he’d half-dreamed of disaster at work, a child miniaturised and flicked into the air by a careless gesture of his arm only to disappear and set off a hospital-wide alert and danger and risk and possible trouble for him. He imagined a whole range of potential disasters that were vaguely based on the reality of his job but were enhanced and exaggerated to the point of catastrophe in each case, all seeming to be real and likely to happen. All producing a stomach churning sense of blame and shame and guilt that had become part of his everyday experience in the last few months. He had thought of killing himself but was scared to and didn’t want to hurt anyone he loved, and he knew they would be very hurt. He’d thought of drugs, on top of the alcohol that he already consumed in ever increasing quantities, heroine maybe or a nice bit of valium. He knew from some previous experiences with lesser drugs though that this always made him feel worse and led to a spiral of excess and utter despair. The last had come from a 2 week long alcohol binge and although he’d managed to go to work during that time, he did very little there, was paranoid the whole time that people would know how much he’d been drinking and could smell it on his clothes and breath. He also found that compared to now, which was pretty awful, pretty hopeless and black and without hope, but compared to this, the 2 week extra excessive drinking had taken him to a whole new level of misery. On top of the usual despair he had to deal with the fact that all his normal routines started to fall apart. He stopped coking, ate crappy expensive take away food, didn’t wash his clothes or wash up or clean his apartment or even other to wash himself by the second week. He knew then that anything stronger like Heroine would be even worse, but it was still tempting. Maybe he wouldn’t go to work and would just lie about in his own filth until he needed to score again, but probably he wouldn’t care. He gathered it was so strong that you didn’t give a shit bout anything – maybe that’s what he wanted. Again though he thought of loved ones and realised it was another solution he’d have to avoid. The trap tightened. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
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Dark and dismal are the days and the nights no different. Ishmael has been through this before, when he was sent to the Northlands as a young adult, prove himself. Now the darkness had come to his own, once beautiful, land and everything was withering and failing beneath it. None of the scientists could agree – typical- said his Father, they never could agree, some of them thought the world was round at one point, idiots! Still at least there was a glimmer of hope, well, a glimmer of light that is. Last week, it was noticed and reported in all the newspapers, to the south, just behind the Great Fathers mountains, if you looked carefully and for long enough at the right time, the time that used to be noon, you cold se a faint orange glow. No one really knew what t meant but the speculation and hopeful conclusion was that the darkness might be ending. Amongst the range of theories that attempted to explain the darkness three were the most prominent: 1. Some ort of reaction to the burning of the forests – they were now reduced to less than a quarter of their size in all areas of the country 2. A punishment, some sort of Armageddon, sign of the end of the world as a result of the sins of mankind – nonsense, as far as he was concerned, but surprisingly well supported. People always want to believe the most negative – his father said. 3. A change in the atmosphere related to the meteor shower which fell a few months ago, mostly on the mountains but some nearby. It was the biggest and most devastating ever recorded and any villages or towns beneath it were completely annihilated. This was the one that Ishmael tended to believe. He knew several people in the closest village to be destroyed and part of him wanted there to be some sort of explanation or consequence or marking of the event. The darkness, t him, felt like an extended mourning. He felt guilty about wanting the light back but as it had been gone now for 3 months, thought that it was probably OK to think this. Hi Father had his own ideas, it’s the Grenglsih, I know it is. I heard they were experimenting with some kind of weather control or some such tomfoolery and this is the result. I told the idiot n the council we couldn’t trust them but they did absolutely sod all. Have you noticed, not many of them decided to stay in the town once the darkness came. This last part was true but Ishmael figured that if he were in their position he would go back home, back to n the few remaining places that had some daylight – 4 hours now, at the last report and dwindling an hour each month. His Mother said it wasn’t for the likes of them to try and fathom it and that it was the gods’ way of showing their power. They’d put it right if and when they wanted to and that was that. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
Various ways of flying had been something that Graham had spent far too many hours and days and weeks thinking and planning and scheming over, ever since he was a small child. No one ever took him seriously, assumed it was just a bit of a laugh and that he’d make a model plane or something along those lines or at best something like a fancy version of the hang glider. For the last couple of years though he’d got much much closer though. No one knew about it, he’d kept it entirely to himself, apart from Gladys of course. She had been involved right from the start, well involved in a supportive backroom sort of way. She made sure he always had plenty of tea and sandwiches. She came out with him on all the trials, making sure there was no one around to see them, taking him to hospital, at least 6 times now and explaining away the injuries so nobody asked too many questions or got suspicious about his project. She was wonderful and he decided long ago that as soon as he’d flown he was going to ask her to marry him. He’d fantasised about flying with her, soaring above the town, over the woods, across the ocean to Europe- he knew it couldn’t happen though, she’d not been trained like he had and the muscular development he’d put himself through was both painstaking and potentially impossible for a woman, especially one as frail as Gladys. Still, she could meet him on the other side; he’d need a support person and someone on the radio to contact in case anything went wrong. He didn’t yet know how other fliers would react. He had a theory that they might treat him, other birds that is, as a threat. He knew a bit about bird behaviour and knew for instance that if a rare bird, like a pet, escaped into the environment that wasn’t its natural one, where there were no others of its kind, a bit of a loner, standing out like a sore thumb; other birds nearly always attacked and killed it. They were vicious killers birds, very territorial too. So he was a bit concerned about that but he was going to be well protected and planned on carrying a pepper spray and wearing thick body armour, lightweight though so it didn’t stop him getting off the ground, modelled on the stab vests that the police used but also using a lot of the technology of space programmes to ensure lightness and not too much sweating. This was probably the most expensive part of his project in fact and he often worried that a smart investigator or just someone a bit nosey, might draw the right conclusion and find out what he was up to once they noticed he was in frequent contact with scientists from NASA. Still, it was almost too late for that. Next week it should happen. He should fly, independently, with his suit on and wings obviously, but without any kind of artificial propulsion, purely using his amazingly muscular arms and the beautiful set of wings he’d manufactured and perfected over the years. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
Can’t seem to find a topic to easily settle on but it will come - what about shirts, must be 500 in that. Shirts were always a bit f a problem fro Joshua. He hated the stiffness and the fact that most places where he’d worked they seemed to expect you to add a tie to them. He did admit, occasionally, under pressure from his girlfriend and his mum – at a wedding or a special occasion – that it could look good but he absolutely hated having to wear them every day at work. It felt a bit like a uniform, well – it was a uniform – maybe his Dad’s army influence was why he hated the whole and tie bullshit. He knew his Dad wanted it, even though he hadn’t seen him since he was 6 – he knew he would have gone on about for hours – added in a load of guff about pride and honour and setting standards. Fuck all to do with him and his life but a surprising amount f people seemed to go along with those values and not just military arseholes either. As far as he knew none of the blokes at work had been in the military or had parents who wee or had been, and yet, even amongst those that he knew were quite anti-military, like Gavin, who’d been on loads of anti-war marches and seemed to be the antithesis of all things military – he sense of importance he placed on wearing the uniform was alarming. At least, at his last job he’d been able to slob around on so-called ‘dress down Friday.’ Interestingly, there even seemed to be uniform with that, smart jeans at the worst and often just trousers, often a shirt with no tie and a v-neck jumper and often formal shoes – sometimes for the most daring, a polo shirt. The first time he’d worn what he wanted finding it liberating, scruffy jeans, a worn old classic t-shirt and his most comfortable trainers. A few people made ‘humorous’ comments –his boss said something like ‘steady on’ and looked him up and down like a prospective date in a night club and several people just stared or raised eyebrows. He’d been planning on a big change of career for years but nothing stood out or suggested itself to him as an obvious idea. He had a big salary to go with his suit and tie and a big mortgage and Credit card debt to go with it so it wouldn’t be easy. Recently he’d thought about selling the flat – it was in the city, it was on the rooftop and it was worth double at least what he’d paid – pay off all his debts and just do something – anything. He worried about the long term though, he’d need to somewhere to live but if he got another job hat was not as well paid he cold afford some kind f mortgage and if he could work somewhere without a shirt and tie at least he’d be happy ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Cloudy with a chance of eyeballs- again! Drendrog was sick of it. It was supposed to be high sep-season and all they’d had was clouds and eyeballs with the occasional toenail shower for the last 3 weeks. Suppose it doesn’t mater, he thought, we’re lucky we don’t live in Haliburtonsvile, apparently, according to the woman with three noses, at the end of the circle street, they didn’t have nothing but farts falling down throughout the 6 month of the high season what ever they called it in that godforsaken stinky country. Last year Drend thought he was going to be sent there by the council. After all he was supposed to be an ambassador and, so the missus said, how can you do any ambassadoring here at home, not much you can do here is there? He’d shushed her and told her to mind her own business and get back to the sky welding, spent far too much type chunnering on that no wonder there was a big old rent in the sky and the sun was burning everything that lived near the hole. Jersenville, that was burnt to a crisp and soon it will be coming their way, in a couple of months in fact all it needed was the sun to be at the highest point, like mid high season, basically, in three months and then they ‘d go the same way, up in smoke and no one need bother running what was the point. Of course they would but they didn’t ant to, beside, she needed to fix it before then and stop waffling on about him and his ambassadoring. He knew she was right though, and as soon as the high council court of the high and mighty of lordships and excellencies, or whatever the ruddy hell they called themselves stopped ‘tasting’ this seasons cider apple beer wine crop and started looking at what was going on around them – they’d been at it now for 2 and a half years and he wasn’t convinced they’d be able to come but when 3 years were up there’d be another election so something g would have t happen. Anyway, maybe he’d stand for the council, why not, after al he’d been in his esteemed position of ambassador to the something or other, he always forgot the title but he knew it was important, everyone said so and he hardly had to buy any drinks at the tavern and he’d run up a massive bill at the farm shop and old Halfingsworthy hadn’t said a thing. Always greeted him and bowed whenever he came in the shop, bit sickening really but he didn’t mind getting everything for free. You’ll have to pay eventually you know – the missus again poking her nose in and still not welding that arseaching sky. She would do this, always has a say , blast her lazy arse though, she was right and he didn’t even know how much he owed the old farmer. Next month he’d start settling, or at least find out how much and come to an arrangement, better do it before the election coz he might not be n a position to negotiate afterwards. Could be out on his arse and be forced into eyeball clearing again – bloody weather, lets hope its not like this when the elections over, just in case. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
He was sure she would have been happy if it had worked out as planned. After all, who wouldn’t love it? A surprise trip to Venice, fine dining, a proposal. For 3 months he’d planned it and managed to not let on. Often he’d wanted to just blurt it out, but hadn’t. He hadn’t told anyone at all in fact apart from Graham at work, yesterday, just before he left work. Now, things having gone slightly wrong, they were floating in the Adriatic, huddled together, surrounded by a few other survivors of the crash and a lot of bodies, bits of bodies and debris and luggage that had spewed out when they crashed into the sea. Jeanie had been thrilled when they arrived at the airport. He still hadn’t told her where they were going and she revealed on the pane, that she’d assumed it was an internal flight as he had no idea he’d got her passport from her Mum. She only found out when they checked in, she squealed and started crying, as she nearly always did when he planned something nice or gave her a present. She still had no idea about the hotel, overlooking the Grand Canal, or of course, he ring, which was still in his trouser pocket. He’d checked it once he realised that they were both still alive. Now, obviously, Jeanie wasn’t squealing with delight or smiling or excited. She was crying, sometimes, she was looking terrified and she was freezing and shivering as she huddled close to him. There’d been no waning of the crash and no time to get the lifejackets which apparently were under the seats. But since crashing he’s managed to find one floating amongst the detritus and Jeanie wore this. He was holding onto a suitcase which seemed to be incredible light and at no risk of sinking. They’d been in the water for most of the day, he only knew that because they’d set off that morning at 6.30 and now it was dark, so he estimated it must be about 9 or 10 in the evening. The darkness and the blackness of the sea beneath them was actually the most frightening. As the light vanished over the horizon, the sea started to swell and the waves lifted them up at least 20 feet before they rolled precariously down the other side. SO far they’d managed to keep from going under or being submerged but it felt more and more dangerous and as it was totally dark now, harder and harder o see when the next wave was coming. They learned ate a while to try and just float on their backs, and go with the swell, only occasionally did this result in a wave engulfing them. Once, they lost each other after a huge wave lifted them and threw them up in the air before tossing them own into a waiting chasm, only to be rolled over y another big wave. When he surfaced he couldn’t see or hear her. He shouted and shouted until he was hoarse then, heard a faint screaming in the distance. It took half an hour to find her and when he did they were both so exhausted and terrified it was even harder to stay afloat. He tied them together with some clothes floating in the sea. He’d lost his suitcase float but managed to tread water and keep afloat by holing onto Jeanie from time to time. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
Agnes was having one of those days. It happened to everyone, even Fairy godmothers. Agnes was very experienced; 200 years at least she’d been at this. Most of the time she loved it, she loved the sense of achievement, she loved seeing their little faces when she granted them wishes or made something special happen, she loved the thrill that often came when it looked like things weren’t going to quite work out and all would end in doom and death, but at the last minute the subject was saved or made a new discovery or found some new inner strength or something lovely like that and the evil one, the cruel one, the inconsiderate, plotting, badassed one, had his hopes shattered, his schemes destroyed or even, sometimes, and these were a bit unusual, had a change of heart and stopped being evil or mean or vindictive. It was lovely work and she was proud to do it, proud of her family tradition, glad her mum had taught her all the skills and managed to save up enough to send her to the Academy – BUT – sometimes, just sometimes, she didn’t like it. Today, was all about the last job, she realised, that bloody simpering girl who was always complaining to her teddy bear that no one liked her and they never invited her to any of their parties and none of the boys ever asked her out or even looked at her. Mildred was her name. Frankly, Agnes found it a real struggle to care about Mildred. She had a pretty cosy life, her parents were loving, maybe a bit too much, they did everything for her and never made demands of her and never blamed her for anything or told her off, even when, frankly, she needed it. Mildred was hard to like. She wasn’t surprised that she had no friends- who would want her at their party? Obviously in the end she’d fulfilled the contract, she had to, it was part of their code. No one in their chapter had ever failed to fulfil a contract, but that didn’t mean they liked the subjects always or sometimes wanted them to be hurt or bullied or left out or abused. This morning Agnes woke up and realised she needed a break, she hadn’t had a break for 30 years or so, it was about time. She rang Bertha, who she just knew would be up for it, and suggested they get away, go the camp, the place they always went to when they felt like this. Bertha was immediately convinced and wanted to know when they could go. They decided to go next Monday, as soon as Bertha had finished her current contract, some whiney little old man who’s wife had died and was complaining that none of his relatives ever came round to visit him or help him out. ‘Not surprised,’ said Bertha, ‘he’s a mean little bugger and he stinks of old farts.’ On Monday she’d picked Bertha up in her pumpkin limo, she decided to use the best one and even hired a chauffeur; bit of an extravagance but she deserved it. They arrived at the camp just as the sun was going down. ‘Perfect timing,’ said Bertha. ‘We’ll have time to unpack, have a shower and get ready for the evening hunt.’ They looked at each other and laughed. ‘I’m going to chase that little bitch all through the night,’ said Agnes pointing out the back window to the cage that was attached behind. Inside Mildred was holding onto the bars with her teddy bear stuffed under her arm. They could see her screaming but the pumpkin was soundproofed so they didn’t have to hear her. The old man, was sitting in the middle of the cage, occasionally hitting the bars with his stick looking furious and frightened. ‘We’ll see how helpless that old bastard is,’ said Bertha, ‘I have a feeling he might suddenly re-discover the ability move when I stick this poker where the sun don’t shine.’ They laughed and cackled as the limo pulled into the camp. Agnes leaned forward to speak to the chauffeur, ‘Be a good boy and stick those freaks in the holding tank,’ she said putting a roll of notes in his hand. ‘If you come by my room later on, I might have another surprise for you too.’ She winked and nudged Bertha in the ribs as they pulled up outside the Castle. ‘I love this place,’ said Bertha. ‘I’d go mad if I didn’t have it,’ said Agnes. ‘By the way, when you’ve got changed, come to my room before we go out, I’m gonna fire this up.’ She held out an enormous purple coloured spliff. ‘You are evil,’ said Bertha. ‘Yes I am! Until midnight tomorrow!’ ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Anger feels like a tense rubber ball, growing inside him. He takes it with him everywhere. Certain conditions seem to make it heavier or lighter. Yesterday at work when Jeremy said, ‘do you mind if I have this music on’ and he’d said ‘no that’s fine’ the ball grew and throbbed and bounced and when he stood up to go to the toilet to get away from the shitty trashy capital radio bullshit, he staggered under the weight of it. He stayed in the toilet for 20 minutes at least and shitting seemed to make it smaller. It was hot and acidic now though and all afternoon especially when the radio ads came on, he felt it churn and sear inside. ‘You OK their matey’, said Jeremy three or four times. ‘Oh yeah fine matey,’ said Kevin, ‘just fine, just a bit f dodgy belly, curry last night I reckon.’ ‘Shit yeah, know what you mean.’ On the way home on the train waiting on the platform he felt it lurch as the train approached and the woman with the large bags pushed to the front of the platform and something sharp in her bag dug into his ribs. He made a small grunt of pain and she looked angrily at him, as if he’d insulted her. He looked down at his shoes then in the opposite direction towards the approaching train. When it stopped the doors were right in front of the barging woman and he got on just behind her in time to see her take the last seat and look round at him and smirk. He stood in the area by the door, not wanting to get squashed near the seats but so many people got on that he was squashed anyway. The ball was expanding all the way home and he had to look down at his shirt several times t see if it was showing, expecting to see a bulging growth where he could feel it pushing from inside. Twice, the tall bloke who was talking loudly on his phone throughout, stepped backwards onto his toe, not noticing or if he did not saying anything and certainly not apologising. Kevin didn’t mind but the ball did, a lot. It was as if it wanted to strike out at the lanky stepper, whose feet were huge, size 13 thought Kevin and luckily enough he weighed a lot too, being tall and broad. The ball seemed unfazed by the bulk of this behemoth though and lurched towards him throughout the journey. Kevin had to hold it back all the time silently telling it that it wasn’t worth it. Every now and then when he seemed to have persuaded it, and it was still and he was able to relax and just look out of the window, the ball leapt, or tried to leap, dragging Kevin’s body with it, almost nudging the gigantic stepper violently. It took him by surprise three times before he had to get off the train at the next stop and just move along away from danger. Naturally he couldn’t get on again and had to wait for the next train, all the while listening to the furious ranting of the now hardened rubber ball. He hadn’t mentioned it yet but when he got home he knew that his parents were coming round. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
Sounds that pierce my brain like the fire alarm that just started the instant I decided to try writing, need to be silenced and destroyed. Why can’t there be less loud sounds or more soft calming sounds. As I get older sounds seem to be both harder to hear and harder to stop hearing once I’ve noticed them and become annoyed by them. I find it increasingly difficult to put these intrusive sounds to the back of my mind, as I think I could before – before I became this old fart. Are they an assault? Am I an old fart? Yes and yes I think. When I finished working in my garden a few weeks ago in the first weekend of fine weather, making it nice, so I could sit out and relax and be peaceful, it did feel like an assault to have to listen to the music of the people at the bottom of the garden. They’d thoughtfully decided that rather than letting people waste electricity playing their own music; or waste money buying a stereo; or spend hours fretting about how to spend their time on such a wonderful afternoon, they would provide an instant all-pervasive, choice-free solution. Maybe they’re not selfish, maybe they’re just misguided philanthropists. ‘I want to help the poor people of the street (poor in terms of ideas and culture and ability to choose their occupation on this glorious sunny afternoon.)’ ‘I know best, they’ll love this crap-imitation reggae , all the chart stuff, nothing decent, just tacky, tinny, “accessible” stuff that we ALL love once we get a chance. I’m going to give them that chance. ‘ ‘OR I might sometimes even play some of the music they already have but have forgotten about. It won’t spoil it for them; it won’t make them think:’ “Oh my god I have some shared tastes with the fuckwits at the bottom of the garden, I’ll never play that again.” ‘No, it’ll reawaken their obviously forgotten interest and they’ll be dancing in their gardens. They’re probably shouting over the fence at me asking me to turn it up right now, but I can’t hear, obviously, as I have it on full blast. Still, I’ve got all my doors and windows open so they should be able to hear it, after all my windows are vibrating and the sound’s so loud it’s distorted in here. I don’t mind doing that for my neighbours - it’s all about community spirit –INNIT!’ It could be that or it could be that they’re as I imagine: brainless, selfish cocksuckers who don’t give a single thought for me or their other neighbours and are so pathetic and feel so little of themselves that they have to have their music as loud as possible to try and demonstrate in some pitiful ill-fated way that they are powerful, that they do have a voice and that they don’t need to listen to anyone, especially that old fart at the bottom of the garden who keeps poking his balding four-eyed head over the fence and asking in his posh-nobby voice if they could please turn it down. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Boredom is a topic that often crosses my mind, both at home, when I’m sitting down and can’t think of what to do or when I’m at work in a psychiatric hospital and am often told that patients are bored. What does boredom actually mean? Does it mean you can’t think of anything to do? Does it mean you can think of things but don’t think you can do them or that they will be interesting in any way? Or does it mean that you think of things to do and like those things, want to do those things but have no confidence that you’ll be able to do them effectively or with any chance of enjoyment or a sense of satisfaction or achievement. All of those things apply to me from time to time and to clients I work with. I remember as a child when none of my friends were available and I would go to my Mum, who was often busy doing some sort of Mum- stuff or other and didn’t have time to play, and she would come up with a few suggestions: ‘why don’t you draw a picture’, ‘why don’t you play with your cars’, ‘ why don’t you... blah blah blah’. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. What I really wanted, but didn’t actually realise or did realise but didn’t verbalise for some reason, was for her to play, whatever it was, engage with me Mum, come on. Sit down here on the floor, draw with me or play with my cars with me, or anything else. That’s what I wanted. Now as a 48 year old man, I still feel that child-like urge. My girlfriend may be upstairs working on her latest animation, it’s a Saturday, I don’t have to work, I don’t need to do anything in fact. But I start to feel as if I should be doing something or I ought to be doing something. I read for a while, I play computer games for a while, I think about writing then decide I can’t do that, its too scary. My novel, which I’ve probably written about 50,000 words of, has been left untouched for 6 months or more and I can’t seem to go back to it. I expect disappointment or inability to pick up the thread or fear that when I finally do work out where it’s going it’ll be a massive anti-climax. At these times I want someone to play with, sounds childish but its true. We’ve moved in the last couple of years and don’t have nearby friends so its hard to arrange something at short notice. I miss that and I am still not very good at entertaining myself. I often crave free time when I have nothing to do and when I have it I can’t seem to make use of it in a meaningful way. It really pisses me off. I hope that by writing, anyting, each day, 500 words at keast I’ll get that feeling back again, he feeling that something new and exciting is coming ut on the page. I am making something, I don’t know what it is but I want t kep going to fins out. Seems like I haven’ had that feeling fr a long time and I’m hunting it dwn from today. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
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