Writing, mostly.

First published at 330 Words, January 20th, 2012

“We lost another one.”

“Another? Really? Where was it this time?”

Mick pointed in the direction of the ancient oaks that arched above the crumbling crypts. “The medieval quarter. Same place as last week. Same gang, probably.”

A stony silence fell between the pair as Lou considered the situation. “But that means…”

“It does,” said Mick.
“Fuck,” said Lou.
“Yes,” said Mick.
“Shit,” said Lou, “There goes Gabe, then. Damn, what a waste. He was the best of us.”
“Hey!” said Mick.
“Well, ok, second best. Better than me, anyway and I’m still here.”

“You’ll be here until the end of time, you will.” Mick gazed over at medieval quarter. “It’s bad enough that we ended up trapped in these bodies, watching over dead humans; but to be subject to vandalism and, lately, even murder. Well that’s just too much. If this were the old days and I had my sword… Then they’d see a thing or two. I’d soon fire and brimstone and mighty vengeance their asses.”

“Now you’re talking my language, Michael. Still, you should have joined me when you had the chance. Then we wouldn’t be stood here having this conversation.”

Mick continued his surveillance of the medieval quarter. Headstones lay like unpaid soldiers in the aftermath of a riot of flowers. “Lou?”

“Yes Michael?”

“We’re becoming irrelevant, aren’t we?”

“We are indeed, Michael. And, thanks to infinite wisdom and all that jazz, nobody is making any more of us.”

A rabbit bounded on a nearby grave which lay fat with soil. With nothing but dirt to feed upon, the rabbit opted to follow Mick’s unwavering, finger. If you can’t trust an angel, it might have thought, what can you trust? And deep within his rocky bones, the archangel clung to the same faith.

“Lou?”
“Yes Michael?”
“What happens to us? Where do we go when we die?”

First published at 330 Words, December 16th, 2011

He doesn’t like cheese. Can’t stand the smell of it, he says. Can’t stand the smell so won’t like the taste. I’ll be honest, it’s a struggle knowing how to move forward from that. I need to accomplish certain things whilst I’m here, and this isn’t a great start.

But do I want to know.

So I ask about the smell. What is it he doesn’t like?

There’s a pause. Like his dead dog had just come back with a stick in its mouth. He stands to his full height then stretches some more, showing his great belly to me without a single care. He knows I’m not who I say I am.

It’s the smell of cheese frying, he tells me. That’s what puts him off. It’s what stops me too. Frying? Who fries cheese? Everyone fries cheese, he tells me. His wife saw it on the telly and now won’t stop doing it. With milk, he adds. Cheese fried in milk.

I’m losing it. I know I am. The situation is getting out of hand. But you can’t fry cheese in milk. You just can’t. That’s not what frying is. I think I’m right. Doesn’t matter to him though. Frying’s what he wants it to be. Always has been. In his world, everything is what he wants it to be. And this is, most certainly, his world.

I should shut up and finish this. I should. But if you don’t like cheese because your wife fries it, in milk, then your real problem is her. I offer this as an observation.

His eyes twist deep into me. Not once have they looked down at the box I’m carrying.

He doesn’t like cheese. So he won’t like pizza. And if he doesn’t like pizza, then why would he order one?

I find myself more upset at the knowledge I won’t be getting paid for this one than whether or not I can reach my knife in time.

First published at 330 Words, September 9th, 2011

There’s a shop just opened on High Street where you can buy wasted time. The owners must have secured a last minute deal for the premises because nothing’s organised and the fixtures and fittings are yellowed, left over from the last tenants who went bust trying to sell sporting memories.

A group of us went in after school. The others were smoking and the girl behind the counter asked us to leave but there was just one of her and half dozen of us and some of us were big and had facial hair. The girl ended up saying we could stay, just put out the fags and don’t steal anything. We decided to do as she asked, so she went back to looking bored.

The others had no money and just wanted to hang out until the bus came.

I played along but really I was a little bit interested. Ok, more than a little bit. I didn’t mind the girl either but she was older and I didn’t have facial hair.

I wandered to the back. The shelves were uneven, where there were shelves at all, and the wasted time was stacked one on the other like nobody cared. Some were labelled and I could see why nobody cared. Who’d want to buy stuff like a whole term wasted reading a novel with no last page? Or a train journey sat next to someone who stank?

The girl was looking at me all funny. My friends stepped outside for another smoke but I didn’t follow because it looked like I was nicking something and I’m not like that so I grabbed the nearest bit of wasted time and placed it on the counter. The girl didn’t stop looking bored. She glanced down at what I wanted to buy and then looked back at me. You can’t afford that, she told me. Just go. It’s all right, she smiled.

I left, leaving behind a life of no regrets.

First published at 330 Words, July 21st, 2011

It’s always the shoes. Other men in my line of business say it’s the photographs or the stacks of letters and postcards. One chap I spoke to said it was the telephone, it always rang as he went about his work. I’ve never met anyone else who had this happen, certainly it’s never happened to me. Neighbours drop by from time to time of course, that’s only natural. Sometimes I let them in for one last look but I never let them take anything. Not even the shoes, though heaven knows why they would want them. They do though, some of them. Shoes and suits.

All shoes make me feel this way, even those bought years ago by a child hoping their father or mother would again walk in the park and chase the grandchildren. The new shoes, those never worn and still packed with tissue like discarded handkerchiefs, even those affect me. You’d think I’d find them pristine, shop-happy but no, those too evade the light and crouch in wardrobes waiting for their master to return.

When I open a front door, unsealing it to begin my work, I hold my breath. I’m not superstitious, how could I be? I know the owner is dead and I’m only here to empty the house. But I also know there will be shoes slumped somewhere in a corner. I can’t bear their sadness. I deal with the watchful eyes of family photographs or memories of foreign holidays written onto plates on the kitchen wall but shoes, I escape the broken leather of shoes.

I’m thinking of retiring soon though. Families are selling on eBay these days. They can get more for their parents’ lives there. As we move further away from the great wars even the diaries and collections are becoming rarer. It’s hard making a living this way. Besides, my feet hurt from climbing into the lofts where childhoods are stored.

First published at 330 Words, July 5th, 2011

It began with a mystery and ended with a murder.

The murder, based in Grasmere, took place in a whodunnit whose form was a rather alternative interpretation of the life and times of a William Wordsworth whose promising writing career is cut short by his murder at the hands of a more able, though less appreciated Dorothy who, we are led to believe, fell into a jealous fit after young William ended their incestuous affair in favour of a planned marriage to Annette Vallon (a beautiful but unbelievably innocent foil to the lusty wiles of the poet’s, bisexual, sister). Featuring facts which the author only half-remembered and details he had demonstrably misunderstood concerning the themes of the real world Wordsworth, the novel dragged in, amongst others, an Inspector Shelley whose own literary aspirations prevent him from seeing the truth about the monster Dorothy had become. It was both turgid and flaccid which, whilst certainly a remarkable achievement, was nothing compared to that of the title, “Murder Of The English Language”, which had the critics nodding in agreement.

The mystery, however, had begun years before. He had always wanted to know, long before the world denounced him and despite being encouraged to take extra Gym rather than English, why he wanted to write.

He’d never enjoyed the study of English. Never appreciated, or so he’d been told, the art of the novel or the beauty of a sentence. Yet this man, this man who would be denounced from Amazon to Twitter, continued to want to write.

In sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, sub-plot after motif, the author who would murder Wordsworth would, as he held his children and laughed about his journey into literary history, discover that he couldn’t care less about grammar, or whether his book was read or burnt. The act of writing was enough.

And in finally solving this mystery, the author reached for his notebook and began to give Shakespeare a right good kicking.