As the bell rang young Billy Thomas barged his way out. Racing off he headed into the woods above the school Megan’s words echoing in his head: ”I’m sorry Billy we can’t be friends anymore.”
She had just walked away from him.
Gasping for breath he threw himself onto the floor. What had he done? He and Megan had been like brother and sister. They had played together for as long as Billy could remember.
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“I don’t fear death,” said Polypherous, “I fear not being able to say something original about it.”
As he sauntered across the freshly blackened road, its newly laid tar still odorous, to Quinit’s bakery on the corner of Beach Street, where the paving stones were still reddened by the blood of martyrs, and overflowing flowers in iron baskets bedecking the sills of tiny apartments filled with shouting boat-wives, hung like curtains, affording cool in the midday heat, he turned to Archegoron walking alongside, and asked him, “Do you fear death, Arch?”
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He strokes the canvas. With his eyes closed, and with a gentle enough touch, he can almost convince himself that he is feeling her skin, petal-soft, beneath his fingers. How he misses the feel of her. He can look at photos, listen to recordings, smell her perfume. But the sensation of his skin on hers, that can never be revisited. He swallows the lump in his throat.
In front of him, a meticulously mixed palette of colours – her colours, matched to the exact shade of her eyes, skin, lips and hair – glistens in the hazy garage light. It is as though she is here, all the parts of her, just waiting to be put back together. The thought brings him comfort. She has not gone, not really. Not when she can be re-created again and again, each time a greater likeness. If he just keeps going, perhaps he can conjure her back from the dead. He wields his paintbrush like a magic wand. A super-power, that’s what this is. This artistic gift of his. Dare he say it, he’s a God of sorts, if you really think about it.
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He seemed nervous. ‘Good to meet you after the messaging, Cassie.’
After that, he Cassied her at the end of practically every sentence. Put him at his ease, butter him up, she thought. ‘You’re even nicer than your profile!’ she told him, and was chuffed when he blushed. No big ego then.
‘I’m more of a listener than a talker,’ he said. She smiled sweetly at this, holding his gaze with lingering craft. She hadn’t forgotten how to flirt.
‘You won’t replace me – not unless it’s somebody frigging desperate!’ Those were the words of Bill, ex-husband number two, on his departure. His words had nagged at her for a while, but here she was back on the dating game. Her confidence was breaking out again.
She’d chosen the café upstairs in Tesco. A late morning cup of tea before she went to work. Malcolm was a compact guy, a few years older than her, a couple of inches shorter . He was barrel-chested, making her think of a bullfrog. A gentle froggy: tender, a nice nature. She’d made mistakes with men before, but this one appealed to her. He was courteous and it was odd how she felt at ease talking with him, once he’d broken the shackles of silence.
‘I was brought up by my gran,’ he said, when she’d mentioned her three adult children in Blackburn. His mother had done drugs and had mental health problems.
Message to herself: Malcolm might need a mother figure. It could be arranged.
‘You’re local, aren’t you?’ she said.
‘Belper.’
‘Handy.’ And she gave him a little come-on look. A sheepish expression on Malcolm’s face. She did like his shyness.
‘What do you think of me, Malcom?’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘Smitten?’
‘Well I… you know…’
‘You soon will be,’ and she gave a dirty laugh. No point beating about the bush. She was fifty-one, of large build, and she knew she’d never win a beauty contest. She wanted a man for love, friendship, and nookie. Malcolm would do her nicely.
‘So…?’ he said.
‘You’re sweet,’ she said standing up. ‘Fancy popping over to South Normanton to see me?’
‘Well I… yes…’
She gave him a peck on the cheek, and tapped his bum for good measure. That ought to get the message across. ‘Got to go to work, love. I’m in the next couple of evenings. Okay?’ He nodded, the same mix of embarrassment and interest. She was driving the show, and he didn’t seem to mind.
‘Soon then,’ she said, about to depart. ‘Hey, are you OK?’
Malcom was shaking, then he slid to the floor. For a nanosecond she thought of a frog slipping into a pond. Then her nurse’s instincts kicked in. She used her jacket to cushion his head, loosened his collar and tie to aid breathing, then turned him on his side when the convulsions stopped. She stayed with him until the ambulance came. Needs occasional nursing as well as mothering, she noted, as she drove to work.
Aysha had been running and hiding for two days, and still they followed her relentlessly. Now laying under a thorn bush, she was quivering. Her once sleek body was emaciated, a pale grey colour, her eyes seemed to take up her whole face, a beaten look in them.
The hunters found her the next morning, dragging her out and they set off for the krall. She had to be returned. They placed her in the care of the wise woman who set about treating her wounds, purging her of the parasites that she had swallowed in the river water, feeding her honey water and thin gruel. She slowly recovered .
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Unable to move, unable to die.
He couldn’t see, hear, feel, smell or taste.
This was isolation in its purest form. Loneliness inescapable. No rescue, no relief, no companionship, no comfort, and no end.
How long had he been there? A million years, merely a week? Another agony was that in his sightless, soundless state, he could not even measure time.
He would never again know fresh air, a good meal or the touch of a warm hand.
*
“Make me immortal,” he yelled at the Djinn, and it granted his wish.
He gleefully drank down every poison, feeling no ill effects. He had his armed guards charge at him, and even the sharpest blade never pierced his skin.
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You know there’s something seriously wrong when the police arrive at your door past midnight. I guessed what it was at once. He had finally done it.
I’d moved out of the family home when I was seventeen, and haven’t put a foot inside it since. After years of wanting my father’s attention, I finally had it once I reached puberty. It was the wrong sort of course, “our little secret” he used to call it.
Poor Mum, the things she had to put up with over the years. She didn’t deserve any of it. She’d never told anybody of the mental and physical abuse she had been subjected to from ‘HIM.’ Even now I can’t call him ‘Dad’, he’s such a despicable human being. Why she stood by him all these years I will never understand.
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Dafydd scanned the dirty, black surroundings as he approached the colliery. Clouds of acrid dusty smoke belched from the tall chimney that covered the hillside. The pit head wheel rotated lowering colliers underground at the beginning of each shift. Dada and Dafydd, wearing their worn corduroy trousers and jackets, arrived promptly at the mine entrance.
They reported to the office where the manager’s voice called out. “Bring him in Dai. Duw Dafydd, you’re starting work today. Are you looking forward to it?” Nervously he replied yes. Dafydd showed his anxiousness. Dada’s firm and comforting hand calmed him. “Steady bach, you’ll be fine”. They entered the cage and the door shutting unnerved Dafydd. The winding wheel clunked into life. His pulse quickened, his stomach churned, his palms and forehead became sweaty. The cage lowered. They were met below by Emlyn, a well-built giant whose face was covered in black dust.
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‘Do you swear to never rat on any of us?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you swear on your mother’s life, you’re committed to the gang?’
‘I do’.
Harry just played along and said what was expected of him, it had all seemed like proper boy’s stuff until Adam pulled out his knife.
Harry’s lower lip started to tremble.
‘We won’t have any cry-babies,’ Adam stated as he used his penknife to initiate Harry into his gang.
Harry winced.
‘We’re blood brothers now, there’s no turning back,’ announced Adam.
Harry had thought that it would be fun to be accepted into a gang at his new school. Now, after seeing the pleasure that inflicting pain gave Adam, he was beginning to have some doubts.
Continue reading“Fantastic imagination your kid’s got,” the emergency plumber said. “Reminds me of my two when they were ‘is age. Always makin’ things up. Really convincin’ too, told our vicar that the people next door was wanted by the coppers! That took some explainin’, I tell you…”
I smiled, mostly to hide the grimace at the amount it had cost to get him out on a Sunday morning.
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Billy Thomas stomped up the lane, kicking anything in his path, muttering away to himself, frustration written all over his face, every muscle tensed. She had been right again. Even when he made gestures behind her back, she knew. It wasn’t fair. Everyone else got away with things, but not him. She caught him every time.
Plonking himself down on the river bank, he gave vent, screaming at the top of his voice, ”My mother is a witch,” over and over. Behind him, a gruff voice asked what his problem was. Turning, he saw old Mr Morris stood behind him, dressed as usual in clothes that looked too large, a wrinkled face like the bark on the trees, a flat cap, but eyes that were clear and bright. Billy didn’t know him that well, but he always had a couple of pennies when the boys went round with penny for the guy and carol singing. Embarrassed at being caught, Billy grunted. The old man then motioned him, ”Come and walk awhile and tell me your problem, bach, I may be able to help.”
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That time in the quays when his da had gone to the toilet. O’ Flaherty, his smirk as big as the froth on his stout, had put his hand on his knee, then moved it higher to his genitals. Keegan had had the sense to stand up and follow his father.
‘Full bladder, son?’
Keegan told the old man what had happened. The latter’s face became hard, dark like the exterior of Kilmainham jail. ‘And him a priest!’ On returning, he said, ‘There’ll be no more welcome in our house for that bastard.’
Now Keegan was the sole mourner at his burial. Why had he come?
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In the stroke ward were a dentist, a heavy-metal bass player, an underwater welder, a politician, and Nat Wharton, bigshot drug dealer, whose bed was surrounded by a posse of gun-toting cops, each of them as large as a truck laden with opium.
The bass player didn’t know if she was in Carnegie Hall or a hall of mirrors. She listened to the faint boom ba boom of her hapless heart, trying to detect the backbeat and ascertain if the instrument was in four-four time.
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I met with my hero twice a day, everyday. Morning and night. He wasn’t your average hero, he didn’t wear a cape, or fly, nor did he have highly advanced technology. He was small, white, round and tasted of talcum powder. He did have superpowers, he could fight against illness, look after me and was very strong.
Yes, he was a tablet. My hero was a tablet.
We first met when his fellow tablets couldn’t handle me. He was recommended by the doctor because he was so strong. I did some research on him. Found out what his strengths and weakness were. If I were to work with this fella, let him into my life, I needed to know who he was.
He seemed suitable.
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Tourdor stole a secret recipe book from a brewer and set himself up as the kingdom’s best innkeeper. Without it, he could not enjoy the wealth to which he had become accustomed, so he stuck a notice on his door: “Wanted! Three stout fellows to guard my secret.”
An old man with a white beard approaches him.
“I will guard it.”
Tourdor says he wants a stronger man.
The man points a wand at a barrel and lifts it across the bar.
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The university park stumbled down to the sea, imitating the crazy lurching of the terraced houses on the same giddy hill. Sam scuffed about the paths round the flower beds, vaguely aware of daffodils in bloom.
He had a sharp, stabbing pain at the side of his stomach that wouldn’t go away. He was utterly miserable. Three years he’d stayed away from the town, but as soon as he’d entered the park – following the route he and Nicola had often walked – the sense of oppression had just welled up from within him. Memories from the past pushed up a bit like bulbs in the soil.
Continue readingLook at yourself man! Paunch soft enough for a bouncy castle, out of breath, and you smell like an outbreak of leprosy. New year’s resolutions: get fit, have a healthier lifestyle, use deodorants.
That very morning Atkinson jogged on the prom. After a hundred yards he thought cardiac arrest was imminent. The next day the exercise bike his girlfriend, Jackie, had bought him for Christmas was set up in the spare room of the flat. He pedalled furiously for thirty seconds, then coughed and spluttered so much he had to lay down.
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